


Fall as Lucifer Fell

by fengxiaoj



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: "bread thief" is a term of endearment, Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Angst, BAMF!Javert, Cock Worship, Extended Metaphors, Hurt/Comfort, Javert has a sense of humor, Javert pulls a Fantine, M/M, No Javert the Code does not apply here (in bed), Prison Sex, Prostate Massage, Religion, The Law, Valjean fills Javert's pocket with stars, Valjean is a sweetheart, guardian angel Javert, hints of wingfic, star maker Valjean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-02 01:42:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 92,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengxiaoj/pseuds/fengxiaoj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mostly Hugo (as opposed to musical) timeline up through Javert's jump.  He survives the jump and tries desperately to cling to his sense of duty and purpose, working as laborer by day and vigilante by night.  When he gets injured and can no longer earn his pay, there is only one man he could turn to...  </p><p>Fill for kink meme prompt "Javert pulls a Fantine", but then expands into a massive second act of Valjean and Javert heading back to M-sur-M in an attempt to finish the work they started together years ago.  Will they be able to find salvation?</p><p>First attempt at fanfic; constructive criticism welcome.</p><p>I do not own the characters, they belong to Victor Hugo.</p><p>Portrait of Javert: https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B2-oiRFgQM6IdVdVN0ozMWdscjQ/edit?usp=sharing<br/>Illustration in: CH32, CH35, CH36</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Javert experimentally lifts one of his arms from the parapet and extends it over the great roaring river. He can barely see his fingers from the glow of the lanterns lining the street behind him. The smell of blood and sweat is overwhelming the typical smell of sewage carried by the breeze along the river.

He purses his thin lips, takes a half step back from the parapet and straightens his back. Two large, weatherworn hands reach into the deep pockets on the two sides of the great coat to extract a silver snuff box, a pair of handcuffs, and a police badge. After placing those three items into his hat, he places the hat onto the parapet. There is also a notebook in his pocket, and he turns it over in his hand a few times.

_Yes, the home address of that corpse, the one they called Marius._

He places it next to the hat, and climbs up to join the items on the parapet. Even though the sky is just as dark as the water below, he would still rather be looking up.  For a brief moment he wonders whether during this day of too much death, Valjean had managed to save a life. Whether the list of suggestions he wrote out with a shaking hand at the Palais de Justice will be shoved under a pile of paper and quickly forgotten. Whether it is a blessing that the stars are not witness to this world, at least for this night.

Then he hits the water.

 

He wakes to a sharp, persistent pain in his chest and then sound of someone wheezing nearby.

_Someone needs help.  I’ve been shot. Apprehend the criminal._

A grunt escapes his lips as he wills his inexplicably heavy arms and legs to find purchase and stand up, but could only manage to roll over onto his back. It is cold. His eyes gain focus to find the world awash in warm hues of red and gold.  Memories of the previous day rush back into his consciousness, exacerbating the headache he was not aware of until now.

It is dawn, about the time when he has woken up every single day for the past thirty-something years. It is too easy to let his eyes drift closed again, and pretend that the events of yesterday were nothing more than a vivid dream, but… No. He had handed in his resignation to God, that ultimate superior, and it had gotten rejected.  He had been ordered to live, and one does not question orders.  Now there is nothing left to do but to get his legs out of the river and go home, before random passersby get a chance to see him, or worse, offer to help.

He can navigate the streets of Paris with his eyes closed, and that left his mind at the mercy of torturous thoughts during the entire journey back. The only other time he’s handed in a resignation was to that man. That man who at the time was called Monsieur le Maire Madeleine. And he had rejected it too, on the grounds that Javert had only been doing his duty. Ultimately that rejection was rendered irrelevant when Valjean traveled to Arras and revealed his own identity.

_But you chasing him from Arras and locking him in jail, that was unjust. And you surviving this jump is the punishment._


	2. Chapter 2

Six sous. That is all he has in the small metal plate where he keeps loose coins.  

After he had returned from the barricades, he had left with the four Napoleons that were two full month’s rent. It was supposed to be a busy night of arresting criminals and taking them to the jail in the fiacre. The costs were not supposed to be more than one Napoleon and whatever he paid would be reimbursed when he reported it the next day as work-related expense. And yet it had to be Valjean who emerged from the sewers, who pleaded for him to save a corpse. At the end of it the driver had demanded all four Napoleons for the time and replacing the brand new velvet seats. There is no way to earn two Napoleons in three days, in time to make the rent payment.

Javert looks down at his hands and sighed. There is much that these hands could do. He had always thought that if and when he is forced to retire from the service, either because of a severe wound that left permanent damage, or simply from age – that tilling the soil, working the land, would be an honorable occupation. Yet the closest farming village must be tens of leagues away from Paris, and leaving this city feels too much like running away.  One does not run away from just punishment.

_This is as it should be. There are corpses on the streets which need to be moved. Bloodstains to be cleaned. Furniture to be rebuilt._

When he came back he had stripped off the sewage, river, and blood stained uniform top and bottom. The undershirt he left on is now almost dry, and he puts on his only non-work shirt and cravat, carefully smoothing out any wrinkles with his hands. Someone will hire him.

_A lot of the revolutionaries at the other barricades killed indiscriminately and still need to be arrested. I no longer have the authority to arrest them, but that is justice and someone else will do it._

_Someone else must do it._


	3. Chapter 3

Thud!

The sound of a cudgel colliding with a delinquent’s skull brings him a base, animalistic satisfaction. His lips twist into a warped smile.

This man is a murderer! That one, that one over there is a rapist!

“Javert! You brute, stop!” A voice of authority wakes him like a kick to the gut. He growled in exertion to stop his arm halfway through the down stroke, and snapped out of his daydream. The hammer in his hand had smashed clean through the cabinet he is nailing together in multiple places where he was driving in the nails. It does not take an expert woodworker to know it is not salvageable.

“You were hired for your strength but it is no good with you inattentive on the job!” 

Javert had always been proud of his discipline. It seems that the discipline disappeared as soon as he lost the privilege to do the job as second nature to him as the act of breathing. An overbearing sense of shame is threatening to swallow him whole. He drops his hands to his sides and stands at military attention with such abruptness that the owner of the business takes a step back. “Monsieur, I surrender my pay for today and I will have ten replacements built by tomorrow. Do you feel this punishment to be just?” He is careful to hold his head high and avoid eye contact. 

“No, Javert.” The owner, a middle-aged man with peppered hair and beard, sighed in exasperation. He raised a hand for Javert to remain silent before he could voice his objections, and continued in an even tone, “You are bleeding. Go get your hand wrapped, and just make one replacement before you leave.”

“But, monsieur!” 

Do not forgive me. Anything but pity.

“No more words, Javert. You work like a man and a half and I need you to help fill orders. You know that I lost Auguste and Pierre to that damned revolution. Go.”

It had been five days, and in these five days he had been subject to more compassion and pity than in his entire life up to that point. First from Madame Fromé, his landlady of nine years.

_“Madame, I cannot pay the rent and will move out tomorrow. I apologize for the late notice.”_  
 _“Monsieur l’Inspecteur, is everything alright? You’ve never been late with rent before, and it’s been more years than I can count!”_  
 _“Yes, madame. And once is one time too many. This is a good room in a central location, and I trust that you will find someone to move in very soon. If not… if not, I will pay what I have to mitigate your loss.”_  
 _“Monsieur l’Inspector…”_  
 _“Madame, I have resigned. Address me as Javert.”_  
 _“Monsieur l’Inspector, surely that’s a mistake! Just pay me when you have the money. I trust you to pay, and that is more than I can say for some of my other tenants! Everyone remembers how you single-handedly stopped two robberies and escorted women back to the building. Your staying here makes everyone feel safer!”_

She said more, and at the end he agreed to stay to prevent further discussion, expecting to be able to catch up on the rent in two weeks by working overtime at his new job.

These workers, these furniture builders, had been equally confounding in their generosity. They are honest, hardworking men who in truth should be working longer hours but are at least dedicated to their jobs while there. Men who tell each other about their wives and children. A few of them even cared enough to ask him about his background. Prolonged conversation is difficult.

_“Call me Blaise, monsieur. Are you a furniture maker from a different town? Never had seen you around before.”_   
_“I am called Javert. No. Monsieur, I was a police inspector.”_   
_“I see, monsieur, no wonder you have such military bearing. Were you injured on the job? You seem able-bodied… why change professions at your age?”  
 _“Monsieur, I had spent decades hunting down a felon who escaped parole, because a man that was once a thief will always be a thief. But this man recently saved my life, and I fear that everything I’ve ever done in the name of justice had been unjust…”_  
 _“Oh, ha, I reckon it would be difficult to act unjustly to furniture…”_  
 _“You are in error, monsieur. Should a portly gentleman crush a soft wood chair by sitting on it, you must agree in this case he had been unjust to the chair.”__

That was when Blaise had ceased his nervous laughter and excused himself. It is damned unfortunate that these people don’t have a sense of humor.

As for his lapse of concentration today… It doesn’t matter, he had always been a creature of the night. He will wrap up the hand, then build ten replacements even if the owner only wanted one. Giving back the day’s pay would mean skipping a meal a day for the next week in order to meet the deadline for the rent, but that is a small price to pay to uphold this little bit of justice.


	4. Chapter 4

            Thud! Clink! Clink!

            He is once again lost in the rhythmic symphony of clanging metal parts backed by the dull sound of nails splintering then sinking into hardwood. After the embarrassment earlier in the day, he is careful never to loose himself entirely in the illusion of his younger days, of marching armies and nighttime patrols. A disciplined mind should never wonder on the job, as even a split second could be the difference between life and death. The only reason he is allowing himself this completely unacceptable reprieve is that it allows him to work much faster – by making it easier to breathe.

            The sun had set hours ago, and though his always reliable to the minute internal clock had become increasingly unreliable over the past week, he is certain that it is half past three. There is no light but that of the lantern hanging just over his shoulder, no sounds from man nor beast, only that of a duty being carried out faithfully. For a blessed moment, all is right again.

            “No! No!!!!”

            _A high-pitched scream from the left, a woman being assaulted._

A picture flashed into his mind of the tight back alley between the two buildings, clear as day. He knows what is happening. He knows what to do about it. Quicker than his mind can register the movements, he had whipped out an arm to unhook the lantern and launched into a sprint towards that alley.

            “Cease your movements! You will unhand her immediately!” The words come thundering out of the depths of his being, and he hears two gasps just as he rounded the corner into the alley. Two young men, armed with metal pipes. One terrified young women whose blouse is already partially torn. The boys had turned their backs to flee, but upon hearing Javert’s boots on the cobblestone ground of the alley, one boy chanced a glance back over his shoulder. Javert feels something heavy sink in his stomach.

            _The lantern was a mistake. Running in was a mistake._

            “He only has a hammer, you coward, stop running and help me!”  The boy spun around and, due to the tightness of the alley, had to bring the pipe above his head for a vertical strike. Javert coolly sidestepped to remove himself from the path of the swing, took a quick step to close the distance, and landed a clean hammer blow across the boy’s jaw.  A scream of pain, metal pipe hitting the cobblestone with a clang, dull footsteps of the other boy closing towards him.  The boy had his pipe held ahead of him like a jousting spear. Javert jumped off the wall to avoid the lunge, and landed a kick in the chest.  He can hear the air escape the boy’s lungs. The flickering flame in the lanterns cast quickly changing shadows on the grimy stone walls. It is a cold night, but Javert feels a tangible warmth well up deep inside his core.

            _Both criminals down, victim safe. Criminals do not have reinforcements._

            Javert knelt on one knee, dropped the hammer and grabbed the second boy’s wrists with his left hand, while simultaneously reaching his right hand into the pocket of his great coat. It is a movement burned into the muscles of his body through decades of repetition, and it would have taken but a split second for any remaining threat to be nullified. Except the handcuffs are not there.  Javert hesitated for a moment he couldn’t spare, still groping about the deep woolen pocket, until a quickly growing shadow closes on his back.  He turns to see a metal pipe coming down at his head, and feelshands close around his left wrist and pull him off-balance.  He raises his right arm to block.

            A crunch.  A sharp pain.  His back slams into the pavement from the combined force of the pull and the strike. It knocks the air out of his lungs, and his vision whites out.

            “Run, madame…!” He wheezed, calling out to the young woman who had up until that moment been incapacitated by fear, still frozen against the wall. The command is so soft that he wondered if she would even hear it, but just as his vision started to clear he hears hurried footsteps away. Then a knee collides with his nose. He swipes his legs across the ground toward the attacker without clear vision, and felt it knock the attacker’s leg clean out. Already off-balance from throwing the knee, the boy topples over to land awkwardly on the stone, head first.

            “Rene! Oh... god…” Ragged, quickening breathes from the boy behind him. Not long ago he would have cuffed such criminals to something at the crime scene, and had his reinforcements take both into the station. But today there are no reinforcements, no witnesses to the crime. The victim had gone. Today there is no justice. He helps himself up with his intact left arm, and looks down at the boy. He is in tears.

            “Go, and don’t do this again.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things start getting really bad from here now that our dear inspector cannot use his arm.
> 
> Rating upped to explicit for something that will happen in a couple of chapters and something else that will happen a few chapters after that...

            The forearm is shattered.

 

            Javert gritted his teeth through the pain to arrange his right arm across a cabinet shelf. It had not even been an hour, yet deep angry bruises are already setting in.  While standing on a ripped off shirtsleeve, he painstakingly tore it into strips of fabric with his good hand.  Using a wood plank roughly the correct length, he made a brace for the arm knowing full well that it will merely prevent further damage, without doing anything to reset the shattered bone. The pain is nauseating. He had suffered more severe wounds many times before, and the pain had never been this unsettling, this unnerving. Blast! What evil is this?

 

            He tested the feel of the hammer in his non-dominant left hand, and tried to continue working on the cabinets. It is too painful to lift the right hand to hold the nails in position. After a while he sinks to the ground in exhaustion and frustration, and the next few hours pass in a haze.

 

            He wakes up to the sound of the first workers to arrive for work. “Javert! For the love of god, what happened here?!” Blaise kneels down next to him and stares at his right arm. “Is that broken?” 

 

Still plagued by the exhaustion he felt during the night, Javert only managed a brief response. “It is broken. I tried to stop an attempted rape. When the owner gets here, let him know…”

 

            “I am here.”

 

            Javert looks up, and the owner of the business is looming straight over him. Since when were people able to get this close without him noticing?  “Monsieur, I am no longer able to perform this work. Please keep my pay from yesterday, and…”

 

“            No. One of these six will count towards the one you destroyed yesterday, and the other five will count as a full day’s work today. Take these five francs and get yourself to the hospital.”

 

            Hearing this outrageous statement gave Javert the energy to sit up. “Monsieur. That is not just!”

 

            “Five cabinets is more than most men make in a day, and that last one was counted towards a day where you made nine! How is compensating you for two day’s work unjust? Make haste to the hospital and get your arm in a cast, it would be a waste for someone like you to lose an arm.” Venomous rage is gurgling and erupting inside Javert, even though rationally he knows the man is right. What has the world come to, that rapists run free and a man gets paid for a day not at work? No wonder all the others work so few hours! He stands up and throws his shoulders back indignantly, yet no words come out of his open mouth. There are no words.

 

            “Stop glaring, you obstinate man, and go! Come back when you have healed and I will hire you again.” Javert averts his eyes as the pain flares up again in his arm and he feels something deep inside his soul deflate. Just like when Valjean had told him to go.

 

            “Thank you monsieur, for the opportunity to serve.” The rage dissipated just as quickly as it had built up, leaving behind nothingness. He closed his left hand into a fist around the coins and clicked his heels together. Then he turned and left, with the five dishonorable francs searing a hole through his palm. 


	6. Chapter 6

            The hospital visit had only taken half of the morning. The rush of injured persons related to the naïve schoolboy uprising and been taken care of over the past week, and his arm was put into a cast without much fuss. Of course, the young doctor delivered the obligatory lecture for him to avoid using the arm for at least six weeks, and offered to sell him laudanum to manage the pain. He had barely managed not to scoff outright. Yes it will take the bone at least six weeks to heal; he is familiar enough with these types of injuries from his time in the service. But who can manage not to use their dominant hand for six weeks, and who has the francs to spare on laudanum for such an inconsequential injury?

 

            The situation with the rent is much more troubling. He has fifteen francs from six (five!) days worked, which is short of even one Napoleon. Twenty-five more is needed to make up the rent payment for the current month, already three days late. It had been so very long since the last time he had had to walk into a meeting to report that he had failed on a promise. The last time had been… had been when he ended the chase not realizing that Valjean and the little girl had already been cornered into the nunnery. His lips twist into a bitter, self-mocking smile.

 

            “Madame, I was injured last night and am no longer able to continue on the job. These fifteen francs are all I can pay, and I will move out immediately.” He had readied himself for debate, expecting her to ask him to stay. Instead she had taken a look at his slinged arm and frowned, taken the coins from his hand then curtly asked him to move out by the end of the day.

 

            As it should be.  Though, a part of him wondered if after taking fifteen francs she should have at least let him stay until the end of the week.

 

            He spent the day gathering his belongings. There is not much, only one set of utensils, a cup, a plate, the clothes on his back, an extra cravat, a blanket, and the uniform he had carefully washed by hand and hung dry.  What could a healthy man do with only one arm?  No job that relies only on physical labor.  A man does honest work for honest pay, and when there is no way to do the work, the only thing left is to sell what he owns.

 

            The pawn shop owner had asked to see everything he carried with him, including the great coat, his jacket, and even asked for the police uniform. The thought that a well-kept police uniform would command a price of ten francs or more – Javert is horrified equally by the thought of depraved criminals disguised in a lawfully acquired uniform and the fact that he had carelessly left his badge on the parapet.  It is an unforgivable act of gross negligence.

           

            “Monsieur. As I said, two francs for the utensils, bowl and plate. Three francs five sous for the jacket, two francs for the blanket…” The shopkeeper is still talking and Javert is too engrossed in his own thoughts to focus and what he is saying.  The chances of his badge still remaining on the parapet is practically zero, yet he is duty-bound to check for it anyway.  “Monsieur, take everything but the clothes I was wearing and the police uniform.”  He reached for the police uniform and pressed the neatly folded bundle tight against his chest. “Take the jacket and the cravat I was wearing too.”

 

            The shop-keeper turned and scribbled numbers onto a sheet of paper.  “Eight francs three sous.  Monsieur, how about twelve francs extra for the uniform?”  This is a lawful man running a business, yet Javert can see through the mock sincerity in the voice and eyes, can see vividly all the less than scrupulous types coming into the store within the day to pay more than they should for items they should never get their hands on.  It is lawful, but it is wrong.

 

            Making the effort to remain civil, Javert holds out his good arm.  “You said eight francs three sous, monsieur.” The shop-keeper’s jaw drops in surprise, and Javert recalls that in these parts of town there is an illogical expectation for customers to haggle.  He is starting to feel physically ill.  It must be because he had not eaten since lunch the day before.  “A price is a price. The payment, monsieur.  I must leave.”

 

            He is not surprised that there is nothing on the parapet above the rapids. With the uniform still pressed against his chest, he leans over the parapet to look into the dull green river.  It had not even been a week, and he already feels the urge to jump again.  But he knows that the ultimate superior is not allowing him to die just yet, and he will survive another jump if he attempts it.  He knows that his sentence is not nearly over.  The path forward is obscure in a thick haze the likes of which even stars could not penetrate, but there is one duty in front of him.

 

            Two uniformed guards stand at the entrance to the Palais de Justice as usual. Gendarme, not police, and as such they would not recognize his face.  He observes them while standing under the shadow of a lamppost across the boulevard, and finds some part of himself wishing to just stand guard right there until the inevitable end.  The uniform suddenly feels heftier in his arm, and he presses it against the gaping hole inside his chest, against the emptiness in his stomach.  A few minutes later a civilian walks up to the entrance and engages the attention of the gendarmes.

 

            _Do your duty, Javert._

            He casually walked within a few body lengths of the gate, and inconspicuously tossed the uniform close to the gendarme. The image of the gendarme picking up the uniform and carrying it into the building is burning his eyes, even though he should feel relieved.


	7. Chapter 7

            Stay alert, and always have a destination in mind.  Travel with another whenever possible.  This was the advice he had instructed those under his command to give to the populace of Montreuil-sur-Mer.  He had callously ignored the fact that many of those who were out at night had no home, and therefore no destination to travel to.  Now he suffers the same fate; it is just.

 

            He had consulted the city map in his mind and picked a circuitous patrol route snaking through all the barely-lit back alleys, those most notorious for aggravated assaults.  He will sleep in the days and go on patrol during the nights, on a ration of one meal a day.  The money in his pocket can sustain for over a month, and possibly his arm would have healed enough by then.  Why?  Because those who have done wrong serve a jail sentence.  When the prisoners first arrive, prison guards decide on a type of labor for them to carry out, and they are made to work through whippings. Force-fed and kept alive if necessary.

 

            _Be your own jailer._

He will likely not even survive one night without being robbed, but there is no shame in dying on duty.  None at all.

 

            The plan lasted one night longer than he expected.  A seasoned robber he recognized, but who did not in turn recognize him, had pinned him against the wall in an alley with a knife held against his throat.  The robber had then taken his coat along with all the coins in the pocket and kicked him in the ribs until he dropped, unconscious.

 

            He sold his boots.  That bought another three nights.  He had managed to protect an elderly woman by scaring away a young man who had trailed her into an alley.  Elated that he had actually managed to stop a crime, his ears buzzing from the adrenaline rush, he walked up to the woman and asked for permission to escort her home. 

 

            He would see her to safety; he is trembling with need to tell her how he had intuited from the young man’s suspicious movements that he had been trailing her, and from the way he kept his hands in his pockets that he had a weapon, likely a knife.  A police inspector does not brag about his arrests, and he is embarrassed that he feels this need to tell about his success in this small duty, a preventive action that in times past would not even get mentioned in his daily report.

 

            The woman takes a step closer, and Javert struggles in the darkness of the tight alley to read her face, read her posture for information.  A sense of dread creeps up on him and he anticipates her response before it leaves her mouth.  “My dear, there is no home.  We just stay alive however we can.  God bless you.”

 

            _Of course she is homeless._

 

            So he stands there in the alley and asks her about the lisp he heard in her speech.  Every moment that he stays with her, she is a little safer than she would be.  He is engaging her in conversation to delay the inevitable.  It is completely irrational, just like a starving man with one broken arm trying to stop crime.  But it is all that he could do.  So he stood and listened intently to her as she described how she sold her teeth, how she sold her hair, how she sold her body.  His eyes look in the direction of her voice and his mind supplies a face for him to substitute into the darkness.  _Blonde hair, emaciated.  Lisp._

_When he chased Valjean into the hospital in Montreuil-sur-Mer, all the way from Arras after he confessed to his true identity, Valjean had pleaded for him to keep his voice down.  Valjean was trying to comfort that whore who was close to death, and instead he had shouted that the mayor was a parole-breaker and frightened her to death.  Valjean had looked him in the eye and said, “You have killed this woman.”  It was not said in an accusatory tone, no, something worse.  Valjean had calmly informed him of a fact._

 

            “Monsieur, my dear, you must have something better to do than listen to me.”  The woman concluded casually, and he is too numb to stop her from leaving.  He stood and blankly watched her walk straight into a different dark alley.  He kept his eyes fixed on her back until it is no longer distinguishable from the devouring darkness, and only then does it occur to him that she must not even be aware that the young man was seconds from assaulting her.

 

             _Crime does not sleep.  Crime never ends.  It is only slowed by keeping criminals in jail.  She had been assaulted before and she will be assaulted again._

 

            There is a dull ache in his ribs where he got kicked before, and he is almost certain ribs were fractured.  But there is no time for that, there is not even spare cloth to wrap it up.  As long as he can still walk, he will carry on.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How much further can he fall?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you noticed that I promised a reader in the comments section to post this back on Sunday, sorry for taking so long. It is my first time writing something like this and I am writing the entire story out of order. I am already at close to 25k words and need to do a better job forcing myself to edit parts in order and get them out.
> 
> The good news though is that this story will get finished.
> 
> Now, for Javert to keep falling...

The situation becomes unbearable in another two nights.  Going on nothing but water for subsistence, he had become too weak to do better than be too late.  Too late to stop two robberies.  Too weak to get close quickly enough to catch a glimpse of a rapist, but close enough to hear the screams through the entire abominable crime while he panted against someone’s front door.  He needs to sell more.  There really is not much left.

 

The people who purchased hair flatly denied paying for his hair.  It is a decent length, they said, but it would cost more to dye it a different color than they would be able to sell it for.

 

He had then walked up to the teeth-extractors and asked to sell his teeth.  They had complained that he is too old and the teeth are already worn.  They’d looked inside his mouth and decided to take four molars.  He’d agreed, because he does not expect to ever eat solid food again.  He finds comfort in the pain and the image of people extracting something from his body.  He closed his eyes and tried to imagine that they are extracting a bullet he had taken in the line of duty.  He would have a much easier time convincing himself if he had actually succeeded in fighting crime the night before.

 

The nights are blurring together.

 

He had eaten some meals of broth, and walked the patrol with singular dedication.  The criminals who operate along the path had gotten used to him enough to see through any bravado he could manage.  They know he has nothing of value.  They do not care that he witnessed the crimes, because the police do not care much for this part of Paris.  He had only seen one officer along his path, and that officer was simply taking a shortcut to a place on the other side of the city.

 

The criminals are now walking right through him in those alleys, as he takes one step forward after another in an endless circle and they haunt the city in an endless race towards the next crime.  He had started to feel proud of himself when they bother to leave him with a kick or a punch before walking away.

 

He spent half a night off duty, standing with the whores along the dock. It is wrong to not be on patrol, but he hears those screams following him everywhere anyway, and it is all the same now.  Without more sous for food, he cannot be of service to anyone.

 

“Look here!  An older man.”  The man rubbed his hands over Javert’s torso lasciviously, and Javert bit back a wince from the pressure on his ribs.  “Muscular. Come with me, give you ten sous.”

 

Javert recognizes this man.  Women had complained to the police that he assaulted them, but none of the charges held up due to lack of evidence.  “Yes, monsieur.”  He allowed the man to lead him against a wall facing the dock, and the man quickly ripped off all his clothes.  The man takes in all the scars on his body, and there is nowhere for Javert to hide with a lantern directly overhead.

 

“You must not have been good at being a criminal, gypsy scum!” The man sneered, and Javert had to pin his left arm against the wall in fear of lashing out.  It hurts to grit his teeth, it hurts to breathe.  “But you remind me of someone I know…”  The man kept up what sounds like an attempt at seduction, while fingering the puckered scar of a bullet hole in his shoulder.  The other hand traced along a long scar from a knife wound.  Javert never expected this.  He thought someone would force themselves on him, and it would be nothing more than a physical pain. Physical pain is endurable…

 

_Bullet wound from being first into a gang hideout. Personally subdued three, rest of team another four. They were going to rob a store later in the evening. Knife wound from settling a bar brawl.  Stab wound, domestic violence case where husband was about to stab wife with a piece of broken glass…_

The man is kissing, nibbling, and caressing all the scars. Many of them have long been healed, yet all the nerve endings are set alight as if all the wounds are reopening.  These scars had been the last link he has left of the honorable life he had lived, and now they will never again remind him of duty, of service.  They will only remind him of how, thinking to sell his body, he had sold his memories.  Something hot and wet is dripping down his cheeks.  Long ago a whore had knelt in front of him and begged for mercy.  He remembers her face clearly.  Fantine.

 

_Stupidity should be a crime._

 

“Monsieur, please take me…” He plead weakly, knowing that it will not make it end sooner.  But he longed for a miracle.

 

“Yes, yes!” The man reached down and started squeezing and pinching his arm and leg muscles, slapping his buttocks.  Just like he would to check the available horses when Madeline granted his fund request for more service mounts.

 

_Maybe Gymont is still in his stall, waiting for me._

The man shoved him onto the ground, and the left arm he pinned behind his back took the brunt of the impact.

 

_Sprained wrist._

He cannot comprehend how it is possible for a lawful business interaction to be so wrong.  A man with a clean record is paying a willing whore for sex.  There is nothing wrong with this, and yet he, Javert, knows he would never do this to anyone. In point of fact, there are uncountably many lawful things he would never do.  Deep inside his being, he knows right and wrong to be more than words printed on the pages of a well-read tome. It is etched into his stone heart.

 

_Why?  What is this code I follow, which is not the law?_

 

The man flips him over, until his face is pressed against the bottom of the wall.  It smells like blood, urine, and vomit.  The cheeks of his buttock are pulled apart, and then his forehead slammed into the wall as he is torn open.  He could not hold back the scream.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the end, the only person he could turn to is a big bread thief.

It ends with a series of crisp sounds of metal bouncing on stone.

 

“Ten sous.”  The man had tossed coins next to his face, and, judging from the footsteps, walked away.

 

The nights are blending into the days, and blending again into the nights.  He had forced some stale bread down, and clamped his lips closed against the bile that rose back up his throat. He knows how long a human body can survive with no food, and his arm will not heal in time for him to climb back out of this slow decent into hell.

 

He does not want to anyway.

 

His strides along the patrol path get shorter, get slower, until he is dragging his bloodied feet along the ground.  The end is near.  Though he could not control when, he would like to die somewhere along the path, bleeding out from a fatal wound.  It would be one last scar burnt into his flesh, and memories to take with him to the grave.  Black spots are dancing in his vision, and the screams that had been haunting him are by this point so familiar as to fade into the background.  But he hears a new sound, that of a child sobbing just to his right.  He suspects it is nothing more than another figment of his imagination, but he wills his shaking legs to carry him there anyway.

 

A small boy is on the ground, half leaning against the corner where the alley opens into the main street.  Javert sinks to his knees in front of him, and puts a hand on the trembling shoulder.

 

“Look up, boy.”

 

Still sobbing, the boy took a few moments to obey.  Javert had seen this face before.  Vivid snapshots of times long past burst into his vision amidst the black spots.   _Arrested once.  Underage, repentant, held briefly in prison then released.  Bread thief.  Had personally delivered lecture on why stealing bread does not help anyone._ Under the garish light of the full moon, he can see that the boy is emaciated.  He is at death’s door.

 

“Inspector?”  A brief moment of recognition flashed in the boy’s cloudy, unfocused eyes.  “I didn’t steal again.”  The words are spoken with the softest of breaths, yet they are louder than thunder in Javert’s ears.  “I kept my promise…”

 

“When did you last eat…”  Javert’s mouth had begun going through the list of questions as per police protocol, but his mind stopped it.  What good would it do? There is nothing to feed him, nothing left to sell to buy food with.  No one on the streets to help.  He would give just about anything right now to have the authority to arrest this boy and take him into the infirmary.  The boy is no longer responsive. Javert gently cradles the boy against his chest with his left arm, and he knows that the pain overwhelming his consciousness does not come from his sprained wrist.  He lifts his head to look up at the heavens.  A sky full of stars is swimming in his vision, as if not a single one of them could tolerate what they are witness to and have all jumped.

 

He wonders if bread thieves will go to hell even if they are repentant.  This boy is too young, and too innocent.  A long time ago he firmly believed a small bread thief will grow into a big bread thief…  

 

_Big bread thief._

_The man who gives alms._

_“You will find me at number fifty-five, Rué Plumét…”_

“Merde.”  All his pride had long been lost, nevertheless he swears under his breath at this train of thought.  He just needs to get the boy to the front door, and Valjean will nurse him back to health without even giving Javert a chance to ask.  His house is located in one of the nicer parts of Paris, normally a nine minute walk from his current location at a brisk pace. Tonight, it will take him at least an hour, if he were to make it at all.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short flashback chapter. Tried to go for imagery but probably failed...

             _“Mama! Lift me, I want to see!”_

_He jumped up and down off his bare toes, trying desperately to reach the barred window nestled against one corner of the cell walls.  The dirt ground is difficult to jump off of, and his bare feet could not get enough purchase on the smooth stone walls to use it as an assist.  He hates to have to ask every time…_

_“Mama…” He turns to steal a glance at his mother, who has her hands on her hips and is looking at him in exasperation. Her faded yellow dress is full of colorful patches where she had mended rips, and he thinks she is beautiful._

_“I wish you would stop this, my son…” She patted his head. His dark brown hair, cropped short, is starting to grow long again.  She lifts him from his hips, the warmth of her hands passing right through his threadbare and torn pants.  He wriggles his arms between the bars of the window, up past his elbows, and clamps his forearms around the outside of the barred window. The metal is frigid against his skin, and he shivers._

_“When you leave here you should learn a trade.”  Her hands still supporting his weight, she buries her face into his back and started the familiar lecture again. He doesn’t understand, and he is too in awe of what he is seeing to respond.  The window opens just above the ground of the prison yard – and every night he looks up through the window to see guards clad in blue stand in grandeur against a sparkling backdrop of stars._

_“What is a trade, mama?  Why is being a guard not a trade?”  He runs his feet against the stone wall, trying to take some of the burden of his body weight off his arms.  She is gradually letting go._

_“My dear son.  You can never be a guard.”  She watches him struggle to hold on and he wishes that she would help him more._

_“Why?”  His arms are tingling and his shoulders are screaming. He is slipping._

_“Your skin is the wrong color, and you are born to the wrong person. Son, come down.”  She is sobbing, and he does not want her to cry.  He falls, lower than the dirt underneath the guards’ boots, and then he could see nothing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valjean will be here next chapter. Will he be able to give Javert reason to keep fighting?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anticipating full story to be 37 chapters + epilogue. Now that Valjean is here, the hurt/comfort and angst starts in earnest.

 He leans his shoulder against the red brick wall of number fifty-three, Rué Plumét.  The world is spinning, and he pulls himself the last few steps forward by his right shoulder, the wall both helping him remain upright and providing something to push against.  Valjean’s home, a nondescript white building, is completely dark.  Fortunately, anyone who had an extended stay in jail had learnt to be light sleepers by necessity, and Javert knows this habit tends to stay with them for life.  Javert slams his right arm against the front door with as much force as he could summon, and barely manages to slow his collapse against the door through the white-hot pain as the impact makes the cast slide against his broken arm.

 

He takes as deep a breath as his ribs would allow, and yells into the house.  “Valjean…!!”  Then he closes his eyes, and waits.

 

He hears footsteps running down a staircase, and suddenly the door he is leaning against opens inwards.  He topples down, and a strong hand clamps down on his upper arm. “Javert?  Merde…!”  Unable to stop Javert’s fall with one hand, Valjean follows him down to one knee.  “Inspector!”

 

Javert opens his eyes and is greeted by a blindingly radiant smile, framed by a halo of silver white hair glistening under the moonlight.  He is stunned.  The smile faltered quickly as Valjean takes in his appearance, and Javert thinks his eyes must be tricking him. 

 

“This boy… let me take you in.”  Valjean made to wrap his arm around Javert’s shoulders to help him stand, but Javert shakes his head.  “Care for him first.  Go!”  He hands the boy over, and Valjean helps him sit with his back against a wall just inside the door.  Soaked through in cold sweat and exhausted, he gives in to the tug away from consciousness.  

 

_The job is done._

 

Javert is startled awake to a searing pain in his side.  White hair recede from his field of vision and morphs into Valjean’s concerned face.  “Where are you injured, inspector?”  Combating the pain had taken up the last of his energy, and his head sags down into his chest. 

 

“Inspector.”

 

Valjean tries to rouse him again, his tone increasingly urgent.  His patience yielding to apprehension, he cupped Javert’s jaw to tilt his head up.  He flinched back with a hiss when Javert cried out in pain. “Inspector!  Where are you injured?  Please, Javert!”  Not knowing whether the man is too weak to respond or unwilling to, he gently works the few remaining buttons on the tattered shirt open to expose Javert’s chest.  Most of the mid section is covered by a single contiguous purple bruise.  Valjean whispers a prayer under his breath that his previous attempt to support the inspector around his torso did not do more harm to the ribs.

 

“Inspector, I am moving you to a bed.  This is going to hurt.”  Javert weakly shakes his head to express his objection, but Valjean doesn’t care.  He lifts the man by the armpits – if he carried the boy then the shoulders could not be too injured --  and drags him into his bedroom.

 

As Javert drifted back into consciousness, he feels a comforting warmth on his forehead and moving about his chest.  He opens his eyes.  He is in a bedroom lit throughout to an orange glow from a blazing fire in the fireplace.  Two silver candlesticks stand on what looks like an end table to his right.  Everything about the room feels warm, and he doesn’t remember feeling this warm in a long time.  He hears something dripping water out of his field of vision, and he remembers Valjean.  Reality kicks in.  He feels faint.

 

“Inspector.”  His eyes refocus on the familiar voice, and Valjean’s face is hovering in the middle of his vision.  It is burdened by enough raw fear and concern to add years to his appearance.

 

Javert tried to swallow, but his mouth is so dry that his tongue is immobilized. Valjean lifts his head and holds a cup of water up against his lips.  _Why are you so gentle – why did you save my life at the barricades --  I do not deserve this._

 

He only allows himself enough water to free his tongue, then subtly turns his face away.  Valjean doesn’t force him.  “Monsieur,” Javert breathes out, “allow me to pay you for the boy’s care.”

 

Valjean shifts himself to stay in Javert’s view.  They maintain eye contact in silence, and, after a long moment, Valjean sighs.  “You do not have to, but if you insist, inspector… ”

 

“I know, and I do.”

 

“Then you will begin by reporting on your injuries!” 

 

Startled by Valjean’s abrupt change in tone, Javert straightens himself on the bed.  He feels a hand on his chest, calming him, and is disconcerted by the realization that he had been stripped naked.  _He must have already seen everything._ He closed his eyes and submitted himself to the illusion that he is once again reporting to the mayor in Montreuil-sur-Mer.

 

“Right forearm shattered approximately three weeks ago, had cast immediately but it recently cracked.  Multiple kicks to the ribs and legs over three weeks…”

 

“No, inspector. Report on circumstances of injuries.” 

 

Memories rush back of the mayor being short with him on other occasions, when he was injured on duty.  But this time, he does not have the strength to be indignant.

 

“Injuries sustained… while failing to stop crime, monsieur…”  He chokes on a sob, and Valjean is shushing him, but he is not finished. “… and while selling my body.”  The hand on his chest is shaking, and he fears to receive pity from the man.  However, Valjean remains silent.  Javert steels himself for what comes next. 

 

“You will help the boy, and so I will pay.  It is just.  This body won’t give you much pleasure but I have nothing else to give.  Otherwise, please care for the boy and leave me be.”  And he is impressed by, he is proud of, the steadiness in his voice.  He loses himself in the flickering glow cast on the ceiling by the fireplace as he waits for the expected rejection.

 

Valjean’s fingers close around his right hand.  “You are wrong.  Your body can bring me great pleasure – if you will allow me to care for you, inspector.”  Suddenly Javert finds himself staring into the depths of Valjean’s green eyes.  They appear brown under the orange glow and wet with moisture, and Javert finds himself looking into the river again.

 

“No monsieur.  Valjean.  Please help me out your door.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What, you thought Javert would allow Valjean to help him in only one chapter? Oh, please.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the most difficult chapter of all the ones planned, and if you find it confusing please do leave a comment and let me know why.

The two of them maintained eye contact in a battle one-sided only in endurance not in will, where one of the contestant’s eyes are slowly drifting in and out of focus.

 

Clearly it would do no good keep being honest, and he knew Javert was never one to change his mind once he decided on something.  But it is completely absurd for someone so obviously in need to refuse help, so Valjean glanced at the candlesticks and silently asked God for forgiveness before he threatened to cast out a starving child.  “I will only continue caring for Lucién if you also agree to receive care,” he said as he squeezed Javert’s hand – it remained completely and uncharacteristically limp.   

 

A beat later, the corner of Javert’s mouth upturned into a smile as he snorted out a weak chuckle and whispered, “You have never been a good liar – stop trying.”  

 

Valjean was torn between conflicting emotions of irritation at his lie being so transparent and gratitude for the blessing of not being pressed to follow through on that lie.  He paid close attention to Javert’s face as he subtly felt the hand for broken bones, but Javert shifted his arm to pull the hand away.  He quickly grabbed hold of the hand again, “You think you know me, yet you ask me to cast a starving man out of my house.”  _It is something I simply cannot do._

 

“Don’t do this, I don’t have the strength left to fight such a pointless battle…”  Javert enunciated the words slowly and closed his eyes.  Valjean took this reprieve to remove the towels on Javert’s forehead and ribs that had cooled to lukewarm. 

 

Over the past decade Valjean had, with Cosette by his side, walked up and down the stench-filled underworld of Paris, a maze of cavernous alleys inhabited by the destitute of the city, offering whatever help he could to countless people in need.  Before that, he had taken long walks along the docks of Montreuil doing the same charitable acts under a different name.  He had handed out alms to people of both genders, all kinds of skin tones, and ages spanning from newborn – in those cases he would simply give to the mother and she would unfailingly give all of it to the child – to men and women who had lost both their jobs and children in ripe old age.  He had seen the full range of human behavior; some would smile and thank him, some pledged to pray for him, some called him a savior.  A precious few had offered to pay back in the future, and some of those even managed to keep that promise.  Those who were less appreciative would rudely run off with the money, or shamelessly beg for more.  But no one had ever looked him in the eye and insisted on earning the money that he offered unconditionally.  

 

Valjean never did care to be thanked.  In fact, he had given Javert his address three weeks ago expecting the inspector to show up at his door with handcuffs, and was shocked with disbelief when Javert had left him at his house after they took Marius home.  It would be easy for him to give the help; he knows how to be kind.  Yet this man, whose moral stature looms even taller than his intimidating physique, asks of him the more difficult thing -- to rescue a soul instead of simply keeping the body alive for another day.  He wrung out both towels again in the tub of hot water and whispered to himself, “It is very easy to be kind; the difficulty lies in being just.  Is that right, inspector?” 

 

“Yes.”

 

Valjean looked up to Javert’s face and saw a smile of peace and acceptance so different from the sneer he associated with it, out of familiarity, that it transfigured the man beyond recognition.  He had seen this facial expression before --   

 

_Unending line of dispirited beggars against the discolored brick wall, perfectly matched ragged line of encrusted plates, cups, bowls – receptacles which he had tossed one Franc coins into without even slowing to look at the faces of their owners.  There was an empty hole, a gap, nothing, only a man lying flat on the uneven, pot-holed cobblestone ground.  He did not accept the coin held out and placed into his hand._

 

_He said -- “Thank you – do not waste your charity on a sick man.”  He had a smile on his face._

 

Valjean shuddered with fear when he refocused his eyes on Javert’s face.  The only people who had declined his offers to help were the ones who had suffered so long they became desensitized to their own suffering.  He took a moment to refold one of the towels and replace it on the darkest part of the bruise on Javert’s ribs, with hope that the heat would hasten its dissipation.  Individual ribs met his soft touch through the thin towel, and he wondered whether there was residual swelling over the bruise that was disguising how starved the man really was.

 

He raised his voice and Javert jolted awake, “Letting yourself waste away is not justice.  Death is never a just punishment, no matter the crime.”  He put his hands on Javert’s shoulders and pinned him into the bed, careful to avoid any of the bruised or swollen areas.  They have had this specific philosophical debate many times, and he does not have any reason to expect the conversation to end differently this night.  But their disagreements had always been over the appropriate resolution for criminal and victim after an arrest; it had never been about the inspector himself.  “You object to my giving of alms, and I understand that.”  He recognized many of the scars on Javert’s body, and had listen as this man gave numerous reports after being injured on duty.  He remembered even more cases of injuries not leaving a permanent mark, and armed with this knowledge, he was terrified to imagine what Javert had been trying to do over the past three weeks.  He was unable to understand what drove Javert to such desperation, and he needed to.  “Javert, you must listen to me!”

 

By this point Javert fought against him with such effort that Valjean had to stop restraining Javert before he hurt himself in the struggle.  Valjean stepped onto the bed and straddled Javert’s legs, pinning them under the blanket.  His large hands clamped down on the sunken, chiseled cheeks.  _I would buy your soul with one of the silver candlesticks, but you would think of that as an act of charity._ He prayed he would manage to say the right thing, if there was a right thing to say at all.  “I would ask you to work in my factory, inspector, to pay for your care, but I don’t have a factory anymore.  I promise to come up with something for you to do…” he felt Javert cease to struggle at the words, and he was instantly filled with dread.

 

To give a man understanding is an act of kindness; to give him that understanding decades too late is to sentence his soul to a punishment of utmost cruelty.  Valjean would give a prostitute a job in his factory, just as Javert discovered he himself would arrest a starving thief – to keep them safe.  Javert had been blind to this fact before, but he understood this now. 

 

Once again Javert found himself staring into the receding silhouette of the older woman as she walked from one dark alley into another.  If this had happened in Montreuil-sur-Mer, he would have arrested the thief and taken both him and the older woman into the small brick building which served as the police station.  And Madeleine, this man whose heart was so overflowing with compassion that he doled it out indiscriminately, would have insisted on meeting both of them personally after hearing Javert’s report the next night.  Then Javert would have had to go find the woman wondering the streets again the morning after that, because she would inevitably have been released after giving her testimony.  Within an hour the mayor would exit the station with a new worker in his factory and a new resident in the rooms above it, but only after ordering Javert to understate the crime in the official arrest report in the name of mercy.  More often than not, the mayor would have even promised to hire the criminal after he completed his sentence.  The man was so perfect, so good, that he must be trying to cover something up.  Men came in two categories: lawful or unlawful.  No man was that good, it was impossible.

 

Javert burned in shame as he recalled how he had done everything within protocol to make it difficult for the mayor.  He had refused the mayor’s requests to move the daily meetings to the mornings so he could report on crimes committed on homeless victims during the night sooner, because “Monsieur le maire, most police work is done during the day and it is only proper to report at the end of the day.”  He never yielded in the face of Madeleine’s requests for decreased sentences.  He had always thought of the mayor’s rosary factory as a nightmarish den of criminals and prostitutes, owned by a man with a suspicious past.  Yet, though the crime rate in that building was higher than that of the average building, it was shockingly low given the people in it.  It was definitely much lower than the crime rate would have been should all those people been left back on the streets, as he had demanded.  In times long past, this man would have given the older woman somewhere to go other than another dark alley.  But a self-righteous police inspector had robbed this man of his factory and reduced him to a life of hiding and giving out alms.  He had unintentionally committed a theft against the residents of an entire town, robbed them all of their beloved mayor.  He had done this with the full backing of the law, in the name of arresting a parole-breaker.  It was a lawful act, but one that was wrong.  He had committed a crime so staggering that there will never be appropriate prison sentence.  It is a debt he will owe for as long as he breathes.

 

Second chances are unjust, but for the first time in his life he wanted one. 

 

Javert was faintly aware of pain in his ribs, of the lack of air.  He was drowning in guilt and regret, and a torrent of bile and tears rose up and rushed out of him.  A familiar presence was the only thing anchoring him to excruciating awareness.  Valjean held his head off the edge of the bed and wiped his face, as he spoke loudly in a curt tone drenched with tension, “Calm down -- it is all right!”  _No – Valjean – when you have to shout the words ‘it is all right’, something is obviously not right.  Accept that you are a bad liar and spare me this._  He reached for the offending hand and tangled his fingers in the fabric of the sleeve.  “Take me… to the Pont au Change.”  The words were garbled by his dry heaves, and he opened his mouth to try again, but was cut off by a vehement “No! You are not going there again!” right next to his ear.  Javert looked through bleary eyes and Valjean had turned away to reach underneath the silver candlesticks and produce a familiar top hat.  

 

It landed on the bed near Javert’s chest, and a silver snuffbox tumbled out from the impact.  Valjean held the hat to Javert’s hand when he reached towards it, and he felt inside to close his fingers around the familiar cool metal relief on the badge. 

 

“I looked out and saw that you had left… and got there too late.”  Valjean pulled Javert’s head against his shoulder and mumbled incoherently about how he is so sorry, how he had been too preoccupied by a wedding to search for him, how he is glad to find him alive -- and all Javert could think was that he knew what it felt like to be too late.  He was unspeakably grateful and moved that Valjean had searched for him, and had kept all the items safe.  He closed his eyes against the wet fabric on Valjean’s shoulder and his body rocked with silent sobs, but he spoke with a sense of relief he was feeling for the first time in weeks.  “You must also surrender any bread you stole while masquerading as a police inspector.”   

 

Javert felt Valjean stiffen against him, then the grip on his upper arm tighten as Valjean chuckled into the top of his head.  He knew that, were he not injured, the man would be holding him in a crushing embrace.  He knew that in Montreuil-sur-Mer they had almost never been too late.  He wondered if it would be an act of cowardice and irresponsibility for him to jump again.  A dead man could never be better than the man who got there too late.  He wanted to be better than that.  He wanted Valjean to be better than that.

 

“Forgive me this confession, inspector.”  Javert felt Valjean’s lips curl into a smile against his hair.  “God had called on me to save others before, but none of them were nearly as difficult as you.”  It was a testament to this man’s character that such a presumptuous statement could come out of his lips sounding genuine and earnest.  Javert took a few measured breaths to steady himself – he couldn’t be offended by this confession because he has a similar one to make.

 

“And you are by far the most difficult arrest I’ve been duty-bound to make.”  He did not burden the man with the rest of the thought, and tried to fight off memories of the rushing, muddy yellow-green river.  He can hear Valjean’s heart pounding inside the chest.  They stayed that way until eventually Valjean shuddered out a sob and pulled Javert’s head up from his shoulder for eye contact, and Javert knew that he knew.  He looked into those flickering green eyes and saw not a river, but an ocean.  He is drowning in a boundless ocean of compassion.  He did not know until this moment that he had been missing this compassion, missing this man -- for more than half his life.

 

Valjean pressed a kiss onto his brow, and assured him between sobs, “You have me, inspector.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Javert is out of immediate danger now, but it will still take time for his injuries to heal.


	13. Chapter 13

Valjean sat with the Lucién as the doctor looked him through.  He already looked much less pale after drinking a mug of leftover broth when he first arrived then two mugs of milk not long ago. 

 

“Thankfully he had been brought in early enough, there shouldn’t be any lasting damage.  Slowly ease him into more solid food.  Try mashed vegetables and keep feeding him that if he can keep it down.  He should be eating like normal within a week.”  The doctor pulled the front of the boy’s shirt closed, and dragged the blanket up to his shoulders.  “Monsieur you said there was a second patient?”

 

Valjean nodded as he calmed the still nervous Lucién by resting a hand briefly on his forehead, “Yes, he is in that room.  Please follow me.”   The boy was in disbelief when he had been told that not only would he be fed, he could stay.  Valjean did not get a chance to do anything beyond giving him the soup and then urging him to rest.  He was not nearly in as bad a condition as Javert was, and -- a fact that Valjean wasn’t as appreciative before he spoke to Javert – he actually wanted to get better. 

 

After understanding dawned that Javert’s jump was somehow a consequence of his failure to make the arrest, Valjean had looked into those haunted and empty eyes, desperate to bring the man some comfort.  He could sympathize with the feelings of inadequacy and even despair in the face of failure – he never deluded himself, many of those he had given money to had probably died not far from where he last saw them – but suicide had never crossed his mind.  Javert had seemed calmer after seeing the top hat, but Valjean remained uncertain whether Javert would walk right out of the front door as soon as he gathered the strength to do so.  The only thing Javert seemed to care about was a misconstrued concept of payment, so Valjean asked, more in a search for understanding than anything else, “If you were to pay me with coins, would you demand that I spend it a certain way?”

 

Javert met his eyes with a penetrating gaze and said, matter-of-factly, “Only that you spend it in a lawful manner.”  Then he paused and muttered under his breath, “Preferably go purchase some baguettes.” 

 

And this was the exact moment when Valjean saw how easily they could come to terms with each other.  “Do you still insist on paying me with your body?”

 

“Yes.” 

 

“Then get some rest – a doctor will be here at daybreak.”  He knew that this man who, while serving as a guard at Toulon had been consistently the first to both administer lashes and send injured and sick men out of the chain-gang to the infirmary, would not attempt to argue that sending someone to a doctor is unlawful.

 

 Javert had calmly conceded the point, and remained silent as Valjean eased him onto the bed after helping him drink a glass of water.  When Valjean excused himself to go see to Lucién, Javert said with his eyes closed, “It is lawful for you to bestow upon me acts of kindness, but it could still be both wrong and unjust.  Do you understand?”  The expression was not spoken with the rising inflection typical of questions, and Valjean assumed that Javert did not care for an answer because his breathing had already slowed as he fell into much needed sleep.

 

   

 

Valjean lead the doctor to the door of his bedroom and knocked before entering.  Javert was awake.  “I will wait outside, doctor.”  He heaved a huge sigh of relief for the fact that Javert’s numerous injuries was finally being seen to as he walked back to Cosette’s old room.  He sat on the bed next to the boy, and large, bright eyes stared back at him.

 

“Aren’t you tired, Lucien?  Sleep.”

 

“Monsieur Fauchelevent, the doctor said vegetables…”

 

“I will be cooking beans for you.  Would you like that?”

 

The boy took a long moment to ponder the answer to that question before finally responding, “I never had beans, but it sounds like it would taste good.”

 

“Alright, sleep.  I will wake you when the food is ready.” 

 

Valjean stayed until the boy fell asleep before he headed to the kitchen to gather half of the pile of fresh beans harvested from garden yesterday, a head of cabbage and some tomatoes, then put everything into a pot of water and started it simmering.  He would be able to control how much broth versus vegetable to feed each of them based on what they can keep down.  In the ensuing quiet moment, Valjean felt the need to pray – instead of kneeling in front of the silver candlesticks that were still in his bedroom, he knelt on the wood floor just in front of the stove.  He thanked God for guiding Javert to him, and prayed for the quick recovery of both Lucién and Javert.  After that, he asked God how come in Paris, the greatest city in the world, a young boy who never ate beans lived within minutes of people who only ate beans when they grew sick of eating meat.

 

He turned his head toward muffled sounds coming out of his bedroom, belying a quickly escalating debate.  “… take the laudanum, Monsieur!  Even if you could bear the pain, the muscles in your arm will be strained and will worsen the damage done,” the doctor said in a raised voice.  There was no audible response.  The argument had ended before Valjean was able to reach the door.

 

It was more than another hour before the doctor finally opened the door again.  Valjean couldn’t help but to steal a glance into the room.  The inspector lay on the bed with eyes closed and casted right arm above the blanket.  Valjean was saddened yet unsurprised to notice that even when drugged with laudanum, which the doctor in Montreuil had always complained that the inspector refused, Javert was not peaceful in his sleep.

 

The young doctor closed the door softly while unrolling his shirtsleeves.  “He is of good constitution and will recover.  You should only expect him to have trouble with that right arm in the future, as the bone had started to heal out of alignment.  I broke it again to realign it, but the alignment will never be perfect.”  Valjean’s heart broke for the inspector -- of all the injuries on his body, the one part with the permanent damage had to be the right arm.  The doctor listed all the treatment he administered and asked for twenty-four francs; Valjean paid without comment.

 

The two of them reached the front door, and Valjean handed the doctor his coat.  The doctor thanked him and continued, “Just like the boy, he will gain back his weight within weeks.  Unfortunately this means that all the broken bones and severe sprains will have to be rewrapped frequently to make sure circulation is not cut off.  Will you be sending the man into one of the hospitals?”

 

Not having thought ahead to this at all, Valjean hesitates but a split second to realize that he still feared too much for Javert’s mental state to let him out of the house, even if he were to go to a hospital.  “He will remain here, I happen to have an extra bed and can care for him.  Could you show me how to change the wrapping?”

 

“Yes Monsieur, but for the first week it is best to have a doctor do it.  I could stop by every two days over the coming week should you desire.” 

 

“Yes, I do, doctor.”

 

“With the patient’s permission I can show you while I do the wrapping next visit.  And, help him put the ointment on the tear in his rectum.  I left the ointment with him.” 

 

Valjean grimaced at the unpleasant image this brought up in his mind.  He had not checked there after stripping Javert of his clothes, but the inspector had mentioned that he tried to sell his body…  _Merde_.

 

He assured the doctor that it would be done, then saw him out the door.

 

 

 

Javert sat up against the pillows Valjean arranged along the headboard, and glared at the bowl of vegetable soup in his lap while gritting his teeth.  This is an expression Valjean used to see on the inspector’s face every day in many different contexts all vastly different from the one now, and he smiled.  _If the vegetables had been holding clandestine meetings in my garden with sinister intent_ , he thought, _they would be wetting themselves right now.  The soup is simply hiding it._

 

“You are frightening the vegetables, inspector.  Eat.”  Valjean sat on the edge of the bed, and from this close can see not only the smirk on the man’s face but also the thin layer of sweat on his upper lip and brow.  “If you are feeling unwell, rest some more.  I can reheat this for you later.”

 

Javert shook his head no, and put a spoonful into his mouth in a slow but steady motion using his wrapped left hand.  The doctor had wrapped his sprained wrist and that extra support had made it possible for him to almost have full use of that hand.  Valjean had cooked everything long enough that chewing was not necessary, and he watched the Adam’s apple bob up and down on the front of Javert’s throat as he closed his eyes and swallowed.  Minutes passed; the only movements were Javert’s jaw muscles straining with effort to keep his lips clamped shut and the Adam’s apple still moving up and down.  Eventually he swallowed another spoonful, and another more…

 

Valjean watched as he made his way through the bowl of soup by sheer force of will, and wondered whether the man had been putting forth just as much effort to do his duty back in Montreuil.  In front of Madeleine the inspector had always been impeccable; everything was so proper that it had all looked effortless.  His reports were always so concise and factual that it had made the job seem easy, and Valjean felt himself color as he recalled how he had been shocked the first time the inspector had gotten injured on duty.  Javert had shown up to the mairie that evening with his report, punctual as always, with a bloodstained bandage on his shoulder.  When pressed to explain what happened, Javert had insisted that it was in his report. 

 

_“Assaulted gang hideout at number thirty-two Rue Vaisseau, after over three weeks of observing the site as reported previously.  Personally lead ten officers in operation.  All seven suspects arrested, with one officer injured.”  Javert had said all this in an even tone, and Madeleine would be livid over how uncaring, how cold he had sounded about the injured officer if he didn’t know Javert was actually referring to himself._

_“Inspector, you have left out all detail on how you actually got injured.”  The man’s stubbornness had almost worn down Madeleine’s practiced patience and exposed the identity underneath.  He had to order the man to clarify, and even then was only able to get him to reveal that he had ordered officers to rush in through the back door with guns drawn.  All five criminals had immediately raised their hands to surrender, but one had changed his mind just before being cuffed and gotten one shot off.  That criminal had acted stupidly, and it is impossible to predict stupidity, Javert had said.  But then he apologized for getting injured anyway._

Only days later did Madeleine find out in casual conversation with other police officers that Javert had gone in first, by himself through the front door, when two of the seven suspects split off from the rest of the group.  Anytime the duty was risky to perform, he sent himself first.

Madeleine had been annoyed by the recklessness and stopped trusting his chief inspector after that.  He would go on to question Javert’s judgment every single time there was an injury incurred on duty by any inspector.  At that point his only previous experiences with law enforcement officers had been with the one that arrested him for the theft of that loaf of bread, and the guards of Toulon.  He held Javert to impossible expectations – to make every arrest quickly without putting any of the officers at risk, and despite how much the man made his displeasure on kindness and mercy known, he had never, not once, complained of the expectations.  Not until Valjean had seen all the inspectors in Paris, and seen the negligence, the corruption, the prejudice that was much too commonplace, was he able to acknowledge how lucky he had been to have a chief inspector like Javert.  

 

Nor can he forget that time Thenardier’s gang had him bound to a chair in the Gorbeau Tenement, here in Paris.  Javert had charged alone into an armed group of criminals, just to save the life of someone whose face he never got a chance to see.  Walked right into the business end of a loaded gun at point-blank range and didn’t blink.  During that moment Valjean’s heart had leapt into his throat and it was the first time he feared for the inspector’s life.  That night Javert was a one man whirlwind of justice, making guns misfire and terrifying the gang out of their wits.

 

A humph snapped Valjean out of his reverie.  Javert was losing his battle with the soup and some of it had escaped between his lips to drip down his overgrown beard.  This image was so jarring in the light of his previous thoughts that his heart ached; he reached for a towel and wiped the liquid off the inspector’s face without first asking for permission.  Javert nodded towards him in thanks, he eyes weary and with beads of sweat rolling down his temples.

 

“You are much too hard on yourself.  No need to force it down, rest.”  Valjean said, only to have the inspector raise a hand and gesture that it is fine.  The bowl is close to empty, and he had just put another spoonful into his mouth.  A bead of sweat dripped from his chin onto the edge of the bowl, and flowed back down into the soup.  Valjean watched, transfixed, as Javert carried out a Sisyphean task with dignity.  During one of their dinner conversations Cosette had told him of Sisyphus, punished by God to forever carry a boulder up a mountain.  He had used that opportunity to teach her about mercy and forgiveness, and they had never spoken of it again.   _Cosette.  She and Marius kept stealing glances at each other and smiling at each other while I joined them for tea when I last visited eight days ago.  They were blissfully unaware of how obvious they were being._ He had never before seen her smile like that, and it was a beautiful smile.  He wondered if she is smiling right now.

_If course not.  She should be asleep right now.  Unless they are…_ he stopped himself from that thought.  Javert had just swallowed the last spoonful of soup, and he wiped Javert’s face clean of the soup and sweat with the towel in his hand.  Valjean saw that the unhealthy green shade had mostly disappeared from Javert’s face.  The soup must have done some good, but the man looks exhausted.  “Rest.  Lucién already had a bowl of broth earlier and is getting better.”

 

Javert nodded, and Valjean helped him get comfortable on the bed -- not a trivial task given how much of Javert’s body was bandaged.  “Do the bandages around your ribs feel tight?” 

 

Javert shook his head, his eyes already started to drift shut.  “Not too tight…”

 

“The doctor will stop by again at daybreak the day after tomorrow to rewrap it.”

 

With hot food in his stomach for the first time in weeks, Javert didn’t even attempt to keep his eyes open.  “Make sure I am awake when the doctor comes… I need to ask him about my arm…”   Valjean was arranging the blanket on his body and Javert felt the hands stop.  But if the man said any words, Javert did not hear them before drifting into sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Javert finds out about his hand.

“No doctor, there must be something I could do to regain grip strength in the hand.  I am willing to undergo any type of training… just tell me what it is.”  Javert closed the fingers of his left hand around the cast on his right forearm, which rested immobile in his lap.

 

“Monsieur Javert.  Over time with normal use you will regain some grip strength in your right hand, but it almost certainly won’t be close to what it was before.”

 

“You say normal use, so surely if I actually train it, it will recover faster and more fully.”

 

“No.”  The young doctor had genially agreed to talk to Javert about the prognosis for his hand, since Javert was in a drug-induced sleep last time when the diagnosis was made.  However, the conversation had gotten heated before the doctor even fully completed his first sentence.  “Monsieur, your forearm was broken in multiple places and you had it healing in a cracked cast for two weeks.  As you starved the cast became too loose.  Your bone had started to heal out of alignment.  Your forearm muscles won’t redevelop until you can get out of the new cast and the arm will not work as well as before.  There is no way to tell how much it can heal, and it would be much wiser for you to practice using your left hand.”

 

“No!  I cannot do my duty without this hand.”  Javert declared in a challenging tone, and the doctor shrank back from his patient, intimidated.  Valjean walked over from where he had been standing against the wall and sat on the bed, on the opposite side of Javert from the doctor.  Javert ignored him.  The atmosphere in the room felt frigid all of a sudden, despite the raging fire in the fireplace.

 

Valjean said softly to the back of Javert’s head, “Let the doctor do his duty, Javert.”  And for a long moment everyone remained still in the room, until the doctor started to roll up his sleeves.  Javert was silent.

 

“Doctor, why don’t you wait until next visit to show me how to do the wrapping, so that you could finish quickly today,” Valjean said as he looked around Javert to make eye contact with the doctor.  The doctor nodded then reached behind Javert’s back to start unwrapping the bandage around his ribs.  Valjean wondered whether he should excuse himself to give Javert privacy since now there was technically no reason for him to be in the room.  With nothing else to go on he relied on his intuition that his presence may be some source of comfort to the man, and so he stayed where he was and observed in silence.

 

It only took the doctor a little over one hour to rewrap everything, and Valjean walked the doctor out of the room.

 

“Five francs for today, monsieur.”  The doctor accepted the coins from Valjean and gestured back towards the bedroom.  “I will see myself out.  Go talk to him.”

 

He turned back towards the room to find Javert sitting on the edge of the bed with his hands in his lap and his head down.  His back, normally ramrod straight, was bent as if he was being crushed by a heavy weight on his shoulders.  Valjean paused at the doorway, skeptical that anything he could offer could provide comfort to a man whose exploits inspired countless tall tales, whose name was routinely used by parents to scare unruly children.  _Go milk the cow_ , they would say; _otherwise Inspector Javert will come_.  S _ee that man Inspector Javert is leading away in handcuffs?  That is a thief.  If you steal you are a thief and Inspector Javert will arrest you._  

 

He walked up to Javert and knelt down in front of his bandaged feet.  Without lifting his head, Javert said in a strained voice, “Leave me be, for just one moment.”

 

Valjean reached up to hold both of Javert’s hands with a firm grip, and made eye contact when the man looked up.  “You are inspector Javert.  You had personally arrested so many of the workers in my factory, many more than once, that they traded stories about you ceaselessly.  Do you know the stories they used to tell?”

 

Javert shook his head.  He knew he was feared and hated by most in the town, even those who had only ever been upright and lawful citizens, and therefore had never faced his wrath.  Whatever stories Valjean’s criminals used to tell were probably unflattering at best and blatantly untrue at worst.  He wanted to insist again for Valjean to leave him be, but the man was pleading with his eyes to be allowed to stay.   _This man and his empathy._   Javert had despised it back in Montreuil when it was directed towards undeserving people, and now could barely look it in the face when it was directed towards himself.  He sighed.  He would indulge the tiny prick of curiosity he felt in his chest and listen if it would satisfy Valjean.  “What were they?”

 

“A man used to complain and complain that you could subdue a petty thief with a knife using only one empty hand, and how that was unfair.  Eventually another mentioned that in fact, you had knocked a loaded pistol out of his hand with your cudgel.  Later I overhead yet another testify that you had disarmed him using nothing but one finger…” Valjean saw surprise flicker in Javert’s eyes and he smiled wide.  “Were you aware, inspector, that your mere presence could cause a sprinting horse to rear?  I didn’t believe a word of what they said, thinking that they must be exaggerating every single one.  They were simply trying to impress.  In any case I listened to all your reports, and your accounts were never nearly as colorful.”  Valjean took a deep breath and stopped smiling, his tone turning from playful to earnest.  “But now I know that such tales don’t come from nowhere, that real events must have inspired them.  Inspector, what is the truth?”

 

“What they said is not entirely true,” Javert responded as he smiled at a memory.  “When I stepped out into the center of the road and shouted for the rider to desist, he had fallen off the horse.  That was why the horse reared.”  _Stupid thief, if he were that afraid of the consequence he should never have attempted to steal._ He heard Valjean’s steady breathing falter, and refocused his eyes on the man to catch a complex string of emotions as they washed over that face – surprise, understanding, disbelief.  Javert was entranced by the reverence he saw in those eyes.  Only one or two of the very young officers who served under him ever looked at him that way. 

 

Valjean was silent for a long moment.  “So they were more true than I thought.  What was the report you delivered for that arrest?”

 

Javert squinted his eyes as he searched through his memory.  Why ask for the report on a mundane arrest?  “I can’t recall clearly, but that man had been fleeing from the scene of a petty theft, so the report would have been ‘arrested one thief.’” 

 

“Well, inspector, I am impressed.”  Valjean whispered, still in disbelief he had met with this man every single day for years, known him over decades, yet never bothered to learn about the man underneath the uniform.  He was too busy hiding behind his alias, too absorbed in the never-ending struggle to never falter under that all-perceiving gaze.  He ran his fingers over Javert’s hands, his fingertips tracing across the line of thick calluses lining the base of Javert’s fingers.  Both hands were worn over decades of use but everything from the size and thickness of the calluses to the roughness of the skin on the fingers corroborate Javert’s claim that he could not do his duty without the right hand – it had indubitably been the dominant hand.

 

“Impressed?  That I made an easy arrest? ”  Javert asked in genuine confusion, and Valjean looked up to see Javert’s brows were drawn together into a knot.  He felt so much respect and admiration for the man that he was at a loss for words to explain why.  Javert saw the hesitation and pressed harder, “If you insist on being impressed, why not of any of the arrests which were difficult?”

 

Only partially aware that he had reached for it, Valjean gently traced his thumb across the scar left in Javert’s shoulder by the bullet, over the fabric of the borrowed shirt.  He lowered his hand when Javert flinched away at the touch.  “Was that a difficult arrest?”

 

“That one was not difficult but it should have been.”

 

“More difficult than taking a bullet?”

 

“I am paying you with my body, and it does not come with a side of my patience,” Javert snapped with pent-up frustration, accumulated over far longer than one morning.  It was a fearsome display and he had routinely frightened hardened criminals with less, yet it did not even make Valjean blink.  Instead, the hurt visible in Valjean’s eyes chased away all the frustration as quickly as his inane questions had freed them from the chains of his self-control.  Javert continued calmly, “Now that the body comes with one less hand than when I offered it, you can have it for extra time.”

 

“Stop.  Stop the self-pity and explain to me what you meant by more difficult.”  Valjean implored brusquely, and watched with amazement as Javert straightened his back.

 

“I failed to anticipate the risk I would be putting my officers under.”

 

“Are you trying to say,” Valjean tried, and failed, to read the stoic face in front of him,  “that ordering the assault was a… mistake?”

“No.  The assault was planned correctly.  It would simply have been difficult.”  Javert saw that Valjean still did not comprehend, and added three more words to clarify: “To order the assault.”

 

As far as Madeleine was concerned, the responsibilities of the chief inspector entailed supervising the police department and reporting regularly to the town’s mayor.  Whatever Javert interpreted his responsibilities to be -- Valjean still did not know – they were far above and beyond what he had expected to get for a monthly salary of forty-eight Francs.  He had given away more than that amount during some days, and certainly most weeks.  If he had known what he asked this man to do every day, he would have thought that pittance of a salary to be a crime.  Unable to summon the appropriate words, he lowered his head and pressed a kiss to the back of Javert’s left hand, which he was still holding.  Startled by this intimate gesture, Javert tried to pull his hand back. 

 

“Inspector.”  Valjean tightened his grip and Javert stilled.  “You disarmed criminals using only one finger, and there are five on this hand.  Practice using it, then continue doing your duty.”

 

“I left a note at the Palais de Justice.”  Javert said, in a strong but strained voice.  “In fact, you should stop addressing me as inspector.”  It had been a comfort to hear the title spoken by Valjean’s familiar voice; it had been the one constant thing in a world turned upside down.  He was worried for the boy and then worried about paying Valjean for the care to correct something so trivial. 

 

Valjean was not surprised to learn that Javert had resigned.  The thought that someone would ask a fiacre driver to make an extra stop so that he could drop off a formal letter of resignation on his way to commit suicide – it was both ludicrous and exactly the type of thing Javert would do.  With a heavy sigh, Valjean asked, “Did you take as few sick days while here as in Montreuil?  Did you resign in a way that would allow you to go back with a demotion?”

 

Javert tried to pull his hands away, but Valjean only held on tighter.  He responded with a frown, “The note was a list of suggestions for the good of the service, which they would have interpreted as a suicide note.”

 

“Then you are still an inspector, you have only taken an extended leave-of-absence.”

 

Javert shook his head in exasperation, and Valjean found himself glad to see some resemblance of the inspector of old.  “One does not request leave retroactively.  They should not take me back.  Not just the police, no business owner should re-hire someone who disappears for three weeks…” Valjean squeezed Javert’s hand to stop him mid-sentence, and looked up with a soft smile.

 

“You are wrong.  I would re-hire someone who disappears for three weeks, if they can provide a reasonable explanation.”

 

Javert nodded.  Valjean waited with bated breath for more of a response, and was about to prompt for one when Javert nodded again and said, “Not everyone is as forgiving as you.”  Valjean felt a stinging in his eyes – this was the greatest compliment he had ever received.  But then Javert continued, “Don’t be kind to me.  You must know your workers also called me a criminal in uniform, they said strip it off and I would be stealing and murdering just like them.” 

 

“Yes, they did…” 

 

“And events prove that I have done great wrong while in uniform.  They should not allow me back, and if they do, I would need to arrest you.”

 

“You can take me.”  Valjean’s voice trembled with emotion as he let go of Javert’s hands to offer his wrists, laying his hands palm up on Javert’s lap, “I have nothing to stay for.  Do not refrain from arresting me on my account.”  The prospect of spending the rest of his days in the bagne no longer seemed as bleak when compared against the reality of spending the rest of his days alone in this house.

 

 “It is wrong and I cannot do it.”  Javert pushed Valjean’s head up with two fingers under his chin, even though they already had eye contact.  “If I don’t arrest you, will you steal again?”

 

Valjean felt that Javert’s penetrating gaze was skewering clean through him, and he peered into the intent, light blue eyes as he responded, “No, inspector, I will not.”

 

“Then it would do no good to arrest you -- it would not prevent crime.  Just like it would do no good for me to turn myself in for having caused bodily harm to rapists and thieves without filing a report.”

 

“You were born to be a police inspector,” Valjean said, and Javert laughed like Valjean just said the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.  “Really.  The people of Montreuil were lucky to have you serving in uniform.  If the prefecture knows how good of an inspector you are, they will allow you back.  Send in a letter.  Do it for me.” 

 

“It would do no good.”

 

“The current chief inspector in Montreuil is corrupt, Javert.  If you can get transferred there you can do a lot of good for the town,” Valjean said, as he thought of the few pieces of information he had on Montreuil.  Despite not having been able to keep in touch with people he cared about such as his former housemaid, he had gone out of his way to accumulate up-to-date information on the town since his alias Madeleine had been condemned.  His factory had been split into dysfunctional pieces and corrupt, incompetent men had quickly taken up positions in the government.  The quickness of the downfall had been astonishing.

 

“Yes.  Then you must also know that the current mayor is utterly incompetent.  I could not do good even when serving under a good mayor.”  Javert looked at him with burning eyes, “You say that you have nothing to stay for.  You should go to Montreuil.”

 

“And do what?  They will recognize me as Madeleine.”

 

“Your appearance had changed enough that even I could not easily recognize you, and no one else had been following your case for over a decade.  You could get by with an alias.”

 

“Send your letter, Javert,” Valjean whispered as Javert closed his fingers around the pair of wrists still resting on his lap, the fingers of one hand wrapping firm and those of the other gentle and loose. “If you get the transfer, I will go with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Valjean's problems.


	15. Chapter 15

Valjean prayed in front of the silver candlesticks, a long rosary of meticulously faceted jet-black glass beads draped across the fingers of his hands.  It had been the first one to come out of his factory and pass his inspection, and he had kept it with him, tucked close in his chest pocket ever since.  The beads had lost part of their original shine to a thin layer of oil deposited over years of use, and they meandered past his thumb and index fingers as he counted through his recitation of Hail Marys.  At each large bead he recited the Lord’s Prayer, then one Hail Mary at each of the next ten smaller beads, finally to finish with Glory Be to the Lord and the Fatima Prayer as he contemplated each of the fifteen Mysteries of the live of Christ – as instructed in Saint Louis de Montfort’s classic text Secret of the Rosary.  Valjean had lacked the time to do this in full during the previous days, and now his lips formed each word silently while Javert lay asleep on the bed next to him.  He had much to be thankful for.

 

He had quickly settled on a routine with Javert by mutual agreement.  Both of them had spent many years in the prison environment and were used to seeing naked men.  After minimal discussion of what needed to be done for Javert’s injuries to heal efficiently, they decided for Valjean to help Javert strip off his clothing each night before sleeping to check for any bandages that were either too loose or too tight.  Even applying the ointment to the tear in Javert’s rectum, which Valjean had initially expected to be a monumentally frustrating task, ended up not being much of an issue.  Javert had insisted on trying to do it himself at first and aggravated the tear in the attempt, but stopped fighting once Valjean convinced Javert that the ointment would help relieve the pain and that he couldn’t apply it himself.  It became simply a problem to be solved, and being one to get things done, Javert simply said, “Add this to my debt,” before he started cooperating in full.

 

They had done this for the past few nights and gradually Valjean found it reminiscent of his nightly ritual to read Cosette a story each night before tucking her in to bed years ago when she was young.  It had been the best part of his days, being able to care for someone else.

 

The summer sun could still be seen outside the window as it provided the last bits of its light for the day.  Today after meeting the doctor at the break of dawn and then taking turns sitting with and talking to Lucien, both of them were absolutely exhausted by late afternoon.  He had re-wrapped Javert’s chest and hand not long ago, after massaging the edges of the large bruise on his chest around the broken and fractured ribs.  The bruise was getting fainter, and Javert was clearly gaining back weight.  Less blood was coming out of the tear.  Lucién had eaten more soup and was reading through Cosette’s old children’s picture books.

 

_… forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of Hell, lead all souls to Heaven…_

Everything had been good, and there were no questions that he had been helping people in need.  Everything had been good, but for long buried memories that had resurfaced.  Every night as he had his finger inside Javert, he had started reliving memories from long past, nights locked in a dark and dank prison cell when he comforted another with his fingers and received comfort in return. 

 

_He had been escorted to the bagne of Toulon at the middle of the day, and had immediately been assigned to the chain gang to perform construction work under the watch of guards merciless with their whips.  It was grueling but tolerable work for a healthy young farm hand.  At the end of that day a guard had cuffed his hands behind his back and shoved him into a cell.  One man sat in the corner and watched as the guard shoved him face first into a wall and uncuffed his hands.  Then the heavy door of the cell clanged closed, was locked with a loud click._

_The man in the corner had stared at him, and Valjean counted the seconds – thirty-four – until the man got up and cornered him against the walls.  He was a young man in his twenties and an overgrown beard devoured his face.  Valjean pushed him back using his arms and finally with his feet against the man’s hips as he attempted to get close.  The numbers ‘35862’ across the front of his tattered shirt and the man’s eyes were the only things Valjean could see.  The man was not as strong as he was and retreated back to the other corner, and they stared at each other through the night over intervals of barely audible grunts and moans from nearby cells along the corridor._

_“I just got out of solitary, long enough to lose count of the number of days… I just need to feel another body,” the man whispered, “Don’t fight me.”_

_“I am a man, not an animal!”_

_“Yes and a man has needs, you and I both.  You won’t be able to hold out for many days.  The guards here understand that these acts are not worth punishing us for, they know they’d need to get darn close to killing us to stop this, so they don’t try.”_

_The hard labor during the days were more physically taxing than probably the worst of what most prisoners had endured during their difficult lives.  The nights were unlike anything he had ever experienced.  No privacy.  No reprieve.  Night after night._

_He was young, angry, and desperate to know what happened to his sister and her child.  In the first weeks he had shouted and screamed at any guard who walked by that they were wrong to sentence him to five years for stealing bread, and when that didn’t work he begged the guards to let him send out letters – or help him in anyway -- he would do anything to be able to find out whether they died.  The guards had ignored him, or beat him until he stopped begging.  And he labored day after day to construct some sort of brick building – he did not care to know what it was, he was not there when it was begun and hoped not to be there when it was finished._

_The man watched from the corner as he took himself in hand.  “You are young, you must have needs too.”_

_The eleventh day, worn by sleep deprivation and too drained to continue restraining himself, Valjean untied his trousers and pulled them down._

_The man descended on him immediately, explaining with a harsh whisper, “I will use my hands if you don’t want – just let me touch you – it will be pleasurable after just a little pain – “ the man stopped to spit onto his fingers –_

_“We will take turns, we are men and this is an agreement, not an act of – mmph –“_

_“Yes, thank you, we can do that – thank you --“_

_The young man was named Colan, and they sought comfort in each other and gave comfort to each other.  Neither of them understood how they ended up in a prison with serial killers and rapists.  In a place where they were treated like animals, they had grasped for anything and everything that made them felt like men.  It was civil.  They would both bite on a wad of cloth to keep their voices down; they shared their pleasure and their grief in silence._

 

For the past three days he had tried to force the memories from his mind, and he couldn’t hold it back anymore.  He smothered himself with his hands and wept silently into the rosary.

 

_Only one guard ever actually responded to his plea with words, but they were words of abject cruelty.  A very young guard whose name he would later learn to be Javert, barely more than a boy and bereft of the whiskers which would later feature so prominently that they become another part of his face, walked up to him just as his tearful pleas had started to wear down another guard’s patience.  His voice still sounded like that of an innocent child then, with only occasional cracks belying the deep voice of distinctive timbre that he would soon command.  In a world of rage-filled voices and guttural screams, he sounded like an angel._

_Valjean stood frozen, clad in tattered rags displaying the numbers ‘24601’ in black ink, and looked down into the boy’s face as the boy said, completely unfeeling:_

_“If you truly cared for them you would have found honest work; you have great strength.”_

_He had been so angry at the young guard, dressed in a uniform clearly too big for him, barely older than his sister’s son.  He was too young; he had seen nothing of suffering yet.  Valjean had no memory of reaching for the boy’s throat but the next thing he was aware of were guards restraining him, pulling his hands from the boy, the boy’s face flushed red and the whites of his eyes showing.  Something deep inside him knew he would kill the boy if he didn’t let go and so his hands loosened and the boy dropped unceremoniously to the ground.  The guards rushed the boy away then returned to beat him, kick him, whip him, but he was falling into a dark well of despair and he didn’t feel much of it._

_He should have tried harder to search for work, and he knew he could do that when he completed his sentence in four years.  But starving children couldn’t wait, and he prayed day after day, night after night, that they were not still there waiting for him to come back with a baguette.  He would be much too late._

 

_He spent the next few days on the ground of his cell, being forced by the guards to drink water.  He had not seen the boy again for weeks after, and he was not surprised because a boy like that would not survive long in Toulon anyway.  After all, whoever was in charge of this living hell didn’t even think him worth the effort of altering his uniform to remotely fit._

 

“What is the matter?”  Javert asked, his voice so calm that it put Valjean back in some control of his emotions.  Valjean turned his body and his face away as much as he can, and tucked the rosary back into his chest pocket.  That boy had grown into a police inspector so synonymous with the concept of duty that he watched and listened even when he was asleep.

 

“It is nothing.  Pardon.”  Valjean got up to flee from the bedroom, his voice still breaking with sobs.   Once he opened the bedroom door he would see Lucién asleep on the bed through the doorframe of Cosette’s room, yet another emaciated boy dependent on him for food.  Almost forty years worth of time had rendered his once clear memory of the face of his sister’s child into an indistinct blur, but he could not have looked too different from Lucién.  He could save a thousand boys like Lucién in the remaining years of his life and it would still do no good for his sister’s child.

 

He heard the sound of heavy cloth falling on the floor just before he felt a strong grip on his arm. “This is clearly not nothing,” Javert said.

 

“It is nothing you could help with.”  He walked out the door, careful to be silent lest he woke Lucién too.  Javert followed behind and handed him a towel, which he declined, “I am going to sit in the garden, go rest.”

 

“I will sit with you.”  Before Valjean could tell the man not to, he had stepped back into the bedroom and re-emerged with the thick blanket wrapped around his shoulders.  Lucién had stirred and Valjean held his tongue, walked straight out the back door and left it open.  He sat on the small wooden bench, made wide enough to be spacious for him, Cosette, and her beloved doll Catherine.  He heard the door close softly behind him and saw Javert from his peripheral vision as the latter took a seat at the opposite end of the bench.

 

The man sat, as unobtrusive as he was capable of being imposing, exceptional as a spy just as he is as a police inspector.

 

Valjean had expected Javert to bombard him with questions, to try to figure him out, to try to understand.  But Javert did not speak, and after a while Valjean found that he could forget the man’s presence should he desire to.  He let his guard back down and wept, as piano music drifted into the garden from the neighboring house.  Cosette had mentioned that the young girl there was an aspiring pianist.  It was a baroque-sounding piece he did not immediately recognize.

 

“Do you believe in God, Javert?”

 

“There is someone up there I am duty-bound to serve, yet he never gives orders,” Javert responded wistfully.  Valjean smiled through his tears.

 

“I had thought that you died, and with Cosette now happily married,” Valjean choked back a sob, “I was praying for God to take me into his care.”

 

“And you believe that if you die now you would go to heaven,” Javert said.

 

Valjean shook his head, “No, only if my sins are forgiven.  Do you believe you will go to heaven?”  Javert burst into laugher, the force of it shaking the entire bench.  “What is funny?”

 

“You just told a joke.”

 

“It was not a joke.”  Valjean turned to look at Javert, and Javert stopped laughing.  “Which part did you think was a joke?”

 

“You thinking that you won’t go to heaven and that I would.” Javert chuckled, “I jumped from a bridge, Valjean.”

 

They looked into each other’s eyes.  Eventually, Valjean whispered, “We will speak more on this later.” 

 

Javert broke eye contact to lift his head and look up at the night sky.  “The moon is sad tonight,” he observed.

 

The girl next door had just finished playing the previous piece, and launched into the mournful opening of Beethoven’s _Quasi Una Fantasia_.  The girl had enthusiastically explained to Cosette, not long before she left for her wedding, that a German music critic had recently renamed this piece as the Moonlight Sonata.

 

 “You are right,” Valjean followed Javert’s gaze to the night sky, and they watched as a waning moon shaped like a frown morosely began its daily pilgrimage from one end of the horizon to the other, guarded its entire way by countless unmoving stars.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Moonlight Sonata was composed by Beethoven in 1801, but did not get renamed until 1832. I am claiming artistic license for its use here.
> 
> Bishop Myriel was Roman Catholic and therefore here Valjean is also Roman Catholic. I am an atheist and if any reader more familiar with the religion notices problems with the description here or in all subsequent chapters, please do let me know. I will try to fix it.
> 
> Readers interested in Saint Louis de Montfort please refer to his wikipedia page:  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louis_de_Montfort
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter to move plot and set up the next chapter.

Valjean opened the door to a uniformed officer of ordinary appearance who was holding a neatly folded cloth bundle with a police badge on top.  He recognized the badge as identical to the one still in Javert’s top hat, and could tell from the familiarity of the intense deep blue on the cloth that it was a police uniform.

 

“Inspector.  How can I help you?”  Valjean felt a lump forming in his throat from a mixture of anticipation and anxiety.  Ever since handing his letter to a small homeless boy to deliver to the Palais de Justice more than a week ago, a letter which he painstakingly wrote stroke by stroke using his left hand, Javert spent entire days out in the garden training his hand relentlessly.  In all honesty what he was subjecting himself to could only charitably be called training; it was self-flagellation disguised as self-improvement.  Valjean had kept constant watch of him from a distance, wanting to tell him to stop but holding back because he knew he could not win an argument with the man about how things were done within the police force.   

 

“This is for Inspector Javert, from the prefecture.  Please have him direct correspondence to Préfet de Police Gisquet during his recovery,” the officer announced in a formal tone then took a bow.  He handed the items to Valjean along with a letter he pulled out from a pocket and left Valjean standing in the doorway with a smile so wide that his jaws ached.

 

He walked straight through the house to the back door.  Javert was swinging what looked like a tree branch at the trunk of a large pine tree. 

 

“Javert, inspector,” Valjean called out, and Javert turned to fix his eyes first on the smile on his face, then the bundle he was clutching to his chest.  Blood was running down the branch in his hand and started to drip on the ground.  “Put that down and come in to read the letter from Préfet Gisquet.”  The letter felt heavy in his hand, too heavy to only be a piece of paper.

 

Javert dropped the branch then looked at his hand in distaste.  He gingerly held the letter Valjean handed to him between the tips of two fingers that are miraculously not bloody, and Valjean picked up the pitcher of drinking water from the kitchen before escorting him into the bedroom.  They sat next to each other on the bed, and Javert wordlessly dropped the letter before offering his bloody palm to Valjean.  It was a mess of peeled blisters and wood splinters.  Valjean poured the drinking water onto it to wash it, letting the bloodied water run into one of the basins they’ve kept in the bedroom.

 

“Would you like me to open the letter for you?  This will take a while to clean and wrap.”  Valjean asked, grimacing in sympathy and he started to pull out the wood splinters.

 

“No.  In all likelihood they have demoted me, and are asking for an estimated date to return.”

 

“What did you write in your letter to them?”

 

“I wrote that I was injured on the night of the revolution and sustained further injuries while attempting to arrest thieves and rapists in the days after.  That I take full responsibility for my failure to ask for sick leave, and they should do what is just.”  Javert responded to Valjean’s question with a faraway voice, his eyes closed.  Valjean thought back to their previous conversation about returning to Montreuil.  He still does not understand why Javert insisted that he go along to Montreuil, how he could be so certain that he wouldn’t be able to find a good man once he gets there to replace the current corrupt mayor.  All the information he had of Montreuil indicate that it is currently not a good place to raise a child, and Valjean wondered as he worked what they should do with Lucién should they leave. 

 

Javert and Lucién had an odd rapport.  Every night Valjean would sit and tell Lucién children’s stories – he had been working through the Aesop’s Fables quickly – but the boy would not get any sleepier.  Every time Javert was called in to take over, he would deliver a story that always featured a bread thief paradoxically doing anything but stealing bread.  Bread thief turned woodcutters, bread thief turned farmers, bread thief turned doctors… would sometimes get through one hour at work before the story devolved into rambling lecture about the duties performed by the men in their new professions.  The man had an unmatched talent for understatement that made everything sound humdrum.  The stories reliably bored Lucién to sleep, yet it is clear that the boy adored him.

 

“Were those stories partially intended for me?” Valjean had asked after a particularly cringe-worthy episode about a bread thief turned scientist.

 

“I would have repeated the same thing to you while you checked me over if that were the case,” Javert responded with a mischievous smile, “What you require is not a story.”

 

When Valjean finally slowed the bleeding enough he made quick work of wrapping Javert’s hand with some of the extra bandage left by the doctor. Wrapping Javert’s feet several times over the past week had given him enough practice that wrapping the hand only took a few minutes.  However as Javert picked up and opened the letter, the bandages immediately turned red with blood along the creases in his palm.

 

“Be easy on your hand, inspector.  You will need it soon.”  Valjean said as Javert pulled out the letter; he could see the glimmer of a medal attached to the inside of the envelope.  “Let me know what it says,” he whispered. 

 

“Préfet Gisquet informs me that should I have asked, he would have allowed me months of leave.  I am demoted two ranks to inspector third class for extended absence and cited for eminent merit and gallantry for volunteering to enter the barricade as a spy.  I have been awarded the Knight rank of Légion d’honneur…” Javert started paraphrasing the letter in a factual tone but more and more incredulity crept into his voice as he spoke, “and promoted one rank to inspector second class,” until he was shaking his head in disbelief.  Valjean carefully detached the medal of a five-armed Maltese Cross and its attached ribbon from the envelope and laid it flat on the bed.  Javert looked down at it and said with a strained voice, “I am to respond with a date of return to duty.  Is volunteering to infiltrate a barricade really sufficient grounds for this honor?  I should return this.”

 

Valjean smiled at him with fondness.  “Describe how you volunteered.”

 

“The gendarme were spread thin between the different barricades across the city and police inspectors were asked to supplement their men in a frontal assault.  It would have led to unacceptable losses on both sides, and the police are not well trained with rifles and muskets.  I asked for permission to infiltrate the barricade to misinform the revolutionaries. Went in with my badge and an unloaded musket while disguised as a volunteer.”  Almost any other tactic would have led to fewer losses than a direct frontal assault, and there was no reason for someone going in alone to take a loaded firearm.  What good would one shot do?  The badge he carried with him so that if they found his corpse they would know he died in the line of duty.  Any other choices would simply not have made sense.

 

“Then it was an act of gallantry.”

 

“And the eminent merit?” It was military jargon for performance above and beyond the call of duty, and Javert knew that.  What he did not understand was how that would be possible when ones duty was to perform to the best of his abilities, always.

 

“It is…” Valjean whispered, “… eminent merit describes everything you do, Javert.”

 

“You saved two that night.”  Javert looked up from the medal to Valjean’s face, “Did you shoot anyone?”  He had been tied in a martingale inside a room and couldn’t see what was happening outside when fire was exchanged, but he knew that Valjean would not intentionally harm anyone.

 

“No, I intentionally mis-aimed all my shots.”  Valjean cut off Javert when he attempted to jump in with a comment, “Did you ever fire a shot that night?”

 

“No.”  Javert responded after a moment of hesitation, clearly caught off-guard by the question.  “I never had a loaded gun in my hand.  There was not even any point to struggling once they recognized me.”

 

Valjean nodded.  They were probably the only two men at the barricades who never shot anyone that night.  “That was not your only act of gallantry, Javert.  Wear the medal and go request your transfer to Montreuil.  I will go with you.”

 

“I will inform them of the injury to my arm and they will agree to transfer me to a chief inspector position – it calls for more decision-making and office duties than the position of inspector second class in a large city does.”  Javert stood up to face Valjean and offered a hand to help him up.  The hand was warm with blood. “And I will strive to serve you with eminent merit, whatever that is.”

 

“I know you will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See wikipedia page of the legion d'honneur for a picture of the medal:  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/L%C3%A9gion_d%27honneur
> 
> Using the post 1830 version here.
> 
> Dealing with a hyper-extended left elbow and lots of work. Left arm is my bad arm and the elbow is already slowing me down noticeably. It must suck for Javert to lose his dominant arm. 
> 
> Next chapter will be NSFW.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is NSFW.

Tendrils of flames snaked around the log of dried wood Valjean pushed into the middle of the crackling fire and sparks danced in the air as he shifted the log side to side.  The fire failed to consume it no matter where he put it, so he used it to push one of the flaming logs away from the center of the fire to make space, then set the log in his hand there.

 

“It is more than warm enough,” Javert said, the words slightly muffled as he turned his head to the side and tried to extract his left arm from the sleeve of his shirt. 

 

Valjean sat down on the bed, “Which part is sore today?”

 

“Nothing abnormal,” Javert responded.  He had somehow managed to free his arm despite being barely able to bend it or lift it.  He removed and folded his trousers and drawers, depositing them in a stack on the ground next to the bed.

 

“Lay down.”  Valjean swung both of his legs onto the bed and knelt next to Javert as he systematically checked the edges of the bandages across the chest for looseness.  The doctor had stopped by early this morning and confirmed that everything had been healing as expected over the past two weeks.  Now only the parts with broken and fractured bones – the right side of the ribs and the right arm – and his abused left hand were still wrapped.  Nothing was loose. 

 

Valjean dug his thumb into Javert’s left pectoral muscle as he moved along the direction of the fibers to search for knots.  Javert had spent the entire afternoon swinging a rough cudgel he carved out of a branch, and in consequence his entire left side was tense.  Valjean dragged the heel of his hand across the muscle and into the shoulder, leaning his entire body into each pass as he kneaded the stiffness away.  He felt Javert’s shoulder sink into the bed at each push and the rich brown skin tone reminded him of the fertile soil of Faverolles each early spring, as it laid still partially buried under snow but ready to accept seeds to begin the entire cycle of growth anew; the repetitive motion of driving down with his weight through his arms reminded him of the long days he spent working on the field with the heavy plow he favored and which no one else in the tiny commune was able to wield.

 

“What are you thinking of?” Javert asked, and his blue eyes completed the picture by painting in the sky.

 

“Things which are lost,” Valjean whispered wistfully as he began to massage the even more tense shoulder muscle.  Right after he had settled into life as Madeleine in Montreuil, he had made a trip back to Faverolles armed with portraits of his sister and her child that an artist drew from his descriptions.  He expected that in a small community of fewer than two hundred which in better times saw four generations happily crowded into single houses, someone would be able to recognize either one of the portraits.  He walked many kilometers that day, from farm to farm, and never met a person whom he recognized.  The famine that he starved from must have killed many others and driven away everyone else.

 

“You don’t have to do this,” Javert admonished, his breathing slow and his arm relaxed, “You don’t even need to let me pay – I have seen more unjust acts with my eyes than this.” 

 

“You are mistaken.”  He placed his over Javert’s heart, just above the edge of the crisp white bandages, and he was amazed that it was not cold and moist as the dirt sifting between his fingers but instead warm and solid.  But now the vision of paradise is gone and suddenly he could only see the blue of the police uniform.  “The sight of you reminds me of many things, even things which happened before we met in Toulon.”

 

“Faverolles then.”  When Valjean looked up in surprise, he clarified, “I read the case reports on everyone in my charge.  Paid special attention to yours, you were the troublemaker with a history of escape attempts.” 

 

“Do not speak of that.  You remind me of the fields.”

 

Javert looked down at his chest.  “That is the nicest thing anyone had ever said about my skin tone,” he paused, “… but this isn’t the only thing you see.”

 

“No, it is not.”

 

“You have been lost in thought every time you put the ointment in and I’ve been waiting for you to do whatever it is you want to do.” Javert gestured vaguely at his lower body, “Been disrobing myself completely for days longer than it last was necessary.”

 

“The person I had been thinking of wasn’t you.”

 

“35862?  I remember him.  Imagine whatever you need to – that is how whoring is supposed to work.  One person pays another so they can pretend that person is someone else.”

 

“But I am not paying you, you are paying me.”

 

“… I just would have preferred that you would not be imagining me to be a convict…” Javert spoke under his breath and Valjean barely caught these words, but then Javert switched back to normal conversational volume, “Yes, you are correct.  This act happens because someone wants to buy love, or food… or justice.”

 

Valjean gave him an incredulous look – and noticed that Javert had meant every bit of that statement.  This oddly endearing character quirk made his resolve go weak and he experimentally brushed the tip of a finger across the exposed nipple on Javert’s chest.  Javert exhaled in a stuttering sigh and Valjean had never seen him so open, so vulnerable.  When he pinched the nipple between two fingers, the soft whimper he heard made his mouth go dry.

 

“Have you never been touched this way?”  Valjean asked, in complete disbelief over how sensitive his body was.

 

“Not like this.”

 

“This is not going to be anything like that time…” _you sold your body._   _Whatever was done to you, whatever it was you allowed to be done to your body, I won’t be doing it._

 

“No but I will hear the same woman screaming.”

 

“What?”

 

“Maybe after this I will stop hearing her.”

 

“Who is screaming?”

 

“Stop asking and do it,” Javert said in resignation, “just think that you are doing something for me if that makes it easier.”

 

He retrieved the ointment and swiped his index finger into the jar to coat it, then knelt straddled over one of Javert’s legs to carefully push the finger in.  The tear had stopped bleeding days ago.

 

He dipped his head to place a kiss onto the nipple, drew the erect nub between his lips and flicked his tongue across it.  Javert whimpered again, louder this time, and Valjean slid his free hand down the center of Javert’s chest, across the bandages over the abdomen, to wrap his hand softly around the quickly engorging flesh.  It throbbed with the blood coursing through the veins and burned against his hand, and Valjean wondered where all that heat came from, where this man had been hiding it all those years underneath his frigid exterior.  This would not last long no matter how slow he went.  He placed his hand back over Javert’s heart to feel the pulse, and traced a lazy pattern over the nipple, slick with the aid of the saliva left by his tongue.  It grew firm under his finger.  He observed as toned muscles flexed under the skin, felt with his hands as they trembled; he watched with endless fascination as Javert’s body reacted to an unknown sensation and quickly adapted to it.  It had never been like this with Colan; it was always too dark to see and though he touched with his hands he had only ever been surprised by the reactions he was able to coax out of another’s body, never awed.

 

He had kept an index finger unmoving inside the warm and tight passage this entire time to allow Javert to get used to the sensation of his finger.  He slowly pushed the finger in, pulled it out all the way and recoated it with the ointment before pushing in again, a little further each time.  With each stroke he rotated his fingers to deposit as much of the ointment as possible.  The ointment was not as slick as oil but better than the spit he used years before, and would suffice if he used enough of it.  When he felt no more resistance, a result of both the ointment and Javert relaxing to the sensation, he withdrew his index finger so that it could be joined by his middle finger.  He worked to the slow and even thump of the heartbeat and deep and steady rise and fall of the chest under his palm.  Though the motions were identical to those he performed many nights in a different time and different place, the emotions he experienced were different in some ways, identical in others.  The fact that the guards at Toulon turned a blind eye to the act did nothing to make him feel entitled to it; on the contrary he had felt that every precious moment was another theft added to their individual tallies.  Desperation and fear both had compelled them every time to rush to completion.  Here, with this man, he felt safe to take all the time in the world – and he wanted to.

 

“You don’t have to be so gentle, Valjean.” Javert said, and Valjean closed his eyes to catch and savor the minute changes in Javert’s breathing pattern when he spoke.  Valjean knew this was as relaxed as he will be able to get Javert to be.  He scissored his fingers to open up the passage, taking his time to make sure Javert would be adequately prepared.  Javert shifted on the bed.

 

“Don’t fight this,” he whispered as he curled his fingers upwards, pressing gently as he moved. 

 

Valjean’s fingers located a small bump and the well-toned muscles on Javert’s thighs and rear, sculpted through decades of riding and patrolling, flexed as he involuntarily clamped down onto the fingers with a harsh gasp.  The heart was thumping harder against Valjean’s palm, the beat quickening.  He could tell he had just found that spot, the spot deep inside every man which he knew first hand could be manipulated to send crests of tingling sensation up the spine, the spot inside Colan which he rammed his fingers into many years ago.  He stilled his fingers to allow Javert time to get used to the sensation and felt for Javert’s breathing in silence, waiting until it started to slow again.  He wanted to make this last as long as possible, wanted this to be all the things that he never had because he started his life hungry, lost his youthful years to imprisonment, then finally lived decades in seclusion out of constant fear.  The only love he had ever found came when he played the role of a caretaker and father.  Some nights he had knelt in front of the silver candlesticks and dared to ask God whether along the way he had sacrificed too much.

 

He circled around the small bump with his finger tips, barely applying pressure, tapping on it with an unsteady rhythm, and Javert was gasping, his entire body trembling with every strike.  Javert’s face was pink with a flush that was spreading down his chest, which had begun to glisten with sweat.  He saw that it was a late thaw in the spring, a sight that filled him with joy and hope because it signified a new beginning, a chance to work his loved ones out of hunger during the next winter.

 

He felt his own cock strain against the front of his trousers as he pressed harder with his fingers.  Javert was making sounds which reverberated inside his chest cavity before leaving his mouth, and which Valjean’s mind vaguely registered as moans except it then became confused and lost because it could not imagine this man ever making a sound like that.  Javert turned his head to the side with a blush, and muttered between sharp intakes of breath, “If everyone did this… we would have a city full of whores…” 

 

“If you can still speak in complete sentences, I must be too gentle.” Valjean said softly.

 

Javert lifted his head to look at him with unfocused eyes and drew in two breaths in quick succession before managing in a hoarse voice, “Yes, yes you are.”  Valjean pressed his palm harder into Javert’s heart, as hard as he dared to without reinjuring the ribs, and felt his body relax back onto the bed.  

 

Valjean adjusted his position slightly to brace his elbow against his hip and thrusted in with enough force to make Javert’s chest slide under his hand.  He heard the elicited groan not with his ears but with something deeper, lower in his body, felt a scorching pressure start to build up within his being.  He saw Javert’s mouth form silent words but couldn’t read them when Javert threw his head back.  This could become painful if done too forcefully, and Valjean tried with each thrust to find the line between pleasure and pain.  He felt the accelerating heartbeat from within the heaving chest under his palm, and looked down at Javert’s engorged cock, flexing involuntarily against his abdomen with pre-cum flowing freely out of the tip.  

 

“Harder… do it harder…” Javert urged with barely formed words that rushed out with his gasps of breaths.  Valjean looked up towards Javert’s face and back down to the man’s genitals.  It is one of the few parts of his body unmarred by scars and the only part that remained untouched by the world.  He licked his lips to wet them then lowered his head to press a wet kiss onto a testicle through the contracting scrotum.  Javert uttered an inarticulate sound and his hips lifted off the bed to push that part harder into the moist lips.  Valjean pumped his fingers faster and Javert’s body went limp around them as he melted into the bed, the muscles flexing but opening up to accept more.  Valjean inserted a third finger while he pressed more kisses onto the scrotum, kisses gentle enough to be chaste if they landed on almost any other part of the anatomy.  Each thrust of his hand traveled through the body to the quivering orbs under his lips, and he inhaled Javert’s unique smell in a deep, shuddering breath.

 

“You are a man…” Valjean asked in a broken whisper, “… of flesh and blood, how did you do all of those things?”  The hot and humid air he exhaled straight into Javert had absorbed to the heat radiating off his body to become sweltering.  He kissed up the length of the twitching penis, trapped it against the abdomen and it trembled with a scorching heat that burned through his thick beard to his chin.  Javert was shaking so severely and Valjean’s own pulse raced so quickly that he could no longer distinguish the heartbeat under his palm from that of his own.  This was everything he wanted, and so much more.  Valjean closed his eyes and let the breathless inarticulate moans Javert made wash over him until his vision flashed white and he came with a gasp and a shudder.  Never had he gotten release before while giving, only when receiving.  It must be a combination of the fear he felt back then and his decreased stamina with age.

 

 “I have finished,” he whispered, and Javert clenched at his words, convulsed around his fingers with a guttural scream that vibrated in his chest.  Pulses of white fluid exploded out of him to mix with the large amount of pre-cum already pooled in the gaps around his abdominal muscles, and Valjean instinctively wrapped his hand around the cock to stroke it gently while thrusting with his fingers.  Javert’s eyes rolled back as several more pulses shot out of him before he collapsed onto the bed, gasping for breath.  Valjean withdrew his hands and stretched his back as he sat up, dangling his legs off the edge of the bed.  They each took their time to catch their breaths, and those breaths were the only sounds in the room for several long minutes.  Valjean was certain he had felt love for a few precious moments, and he mentally made a promise to God that he will be content. 

 

The basin of water he had prepared for cleaning Javert’s skin after he checked the bandages had already gone lukewarm, but he doubted Javert would feel cold right now.  He washed his hands and wrung out a towel, then started wiping down Javert.  The bandages on his chest had been almost completely soaked through, but Javert’s eyes were closed and he looked exhausted.  “I will re-wrap these tomorrow,” he said.

 

After a beat, he recalled Javert’s comment earlier.  “Do you still hear the screaming?”

 

He waited for a response but Javert remained completely motionless with his eyes closed.

 

“Yes then.  You are never this at ease when you sleep.”  He pulled the blanket onto Javert, “Unbelievable that they sent someone so bad at acting and had almost never told a lie to infiltrate the barricades, even if originally it was your idea.  How did they expect you to get out?”

 

“They didn’t.” Javert responded in a factual tone, his voice rough and raw from having been strained almost to breaking.  Then he added, softer, “Unless they had sent you there.”

 

“No they didn’t,” Valjean whispered, “But God did.”

 

“Yes.  He did.” Javert closed his eyes once more, this time with a smile on his lips.

 

“May I sleep here tonight?” Valjean asked.  He had been sharing a bed with Lucién because he feared he would be troubled by all the memories of a prison cell; he just found out that there were better memories waiting for him.

 

“This bed is yours.”

 

“Javert.”

 

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was very difficult to write. Hopefully you find it half as hot as I did...


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moderate edits done on Dec 19 2013

The sun was out and despite it being early in the morning the temperature was already quite high outside.  Javert rotated his shoulders and lifted his arms to test the fit of the new black triple caped greatcoat Valjean had ordered with his measurements, using some of the two hundred and fifty Francs he was awarded at the Legion d’honneur induction.  He needed to get the material to soften with use, and to check whether any alterations were necessary before he reported to Montreuil in another nineteen days.  The riding boots he purchased from the prefecture yesterday, now on his feet, were even stiffer than the greatcoat but also a huge improvement over the sandals he had been making do with before.

 

Satisfied with the range of motion in both arms, he picked up his hand carved cudgel and walked over to a large maple tree – Valjean had banned him from further practice on the pine tree he used the last week.  With the cudgel held in a loose grip with his now much strengthened left hand, he made a few light practice swings at the air to let the cudgel settle into the optimal grip.  Then he swung, hard, at the tree trunk at chest height.  The cudgel impacted with a solid and convincing thud then snapped clean in half, and his grip was strong enough that he felt no vibration in his hand.  He nodded to himself with approval and saw something fall from the tree, which he caught reflexively with his right hand.

 

A tiny bird with mottled black feathers looked up at him from the nest constructed of thick branches and dried grass.  It had toppled down onto its side during the free fall and it opened its beak so wide he could see down its throat.  Javert looked up into the sky.  There were no visible birds at the moment, and the only bird calls he remembered hearing were those of passing crows.  If this juvenile crow had been in the nest over the past few days, its parents had likely abandoned it.

 

He didn’t see which branch the nest originally fell from so he placed the nest at the crook of where the highest branch he could reach came out of the main trunk.  The bird tilted its head and watched Javert as he threw random branches and rotten fruit on the ground then ducked and weaved around the imaginary objects in his obstacle course.

 

“This letter is a ‘c’, here it is used in the word ‘crow’,” Valjean said to Lucién as he pointed to the word in the caption underneath an illustration in the copy of Aesop’s Fables on the wooden dinner table.  He had picked one of the stories Lucién really liked, _The Crow and the Pitcher_ , to teach Lucién to read the alphabet.

 

“See,” Lucién repeated the name then started to copy the letter onto the piece of paper in front of him, below the large section covered by ‘a’ and ‘b’ scrawled out at various levels of legibility.

 

Valjean heard a knock on the door.  “Keep writing,” he said to Lucién, then he opened the door to find Cosette and Marius.

 

“Papa!  I missed you too!  Why didn’t you visit when you came back?  I was scared by the letter into thinking that you were sick and couldn’t visit.”  Cosette tackled Valjean into a tearful hug, and he looked to Marius in shock and betrayal.  He had confessed his true identity as the convict Jean Valjean to Marius, and Marius had promised to tell Cosette that her father had left on a long journey without saying goodbye.  Marius shrugged in vexation and thrust a letter at him.  He unfolded it to see three sentences penned in a deliberate hand:

 

_Madame Pontmercy –_

_Your father Fauchelevent misses you.  Please visit him at n.55 Ru_ _é Plumet._

_I regret to inform you that I killed your mother many years ago in Montreuil, in case you did not already know this._

_Javert_

 

“If you wanted us to visit, why not write a letter in your own name as opposed to that of a dead man?”  Marius asked with barely restrained anger.

 

“Javert!  Get in here!”  Valjean yelled towards the door to the garden, and Javert promptly entered.  Marius had stopped speaking, but Cosette wiped the tears from her face and walked up to him.

 

“Ah, monsieur Javert,” she said, her voice civil and polite but at the same time strained, “Please explain what you meant about having killed my mother.”  Tears of joy from finding that her beloved papa safe and in good health were still leaking out of the corners of her eyes in drops, and Javert fumbled around the unfamiliar pockets of his new greatcoat for his handkerchief.  

 

Valjean stepped between the two of them and looked up at Javert.  The man had judged his handkerchief, soiled with dirt and damp with sweat, to be inappropriate to offer to another.  He was now standing with shoulders back and head held high, steeling himself for just punishment.  Valjean stomped his feet in disbelief.  “Incroyablé,” he muttered under his breath then raised his voice, “Why did you send the letter?!”

 

Javert held up a hand to gesture Valjean to silence.  “As a man who so insists on forcing kindness and mercy on others, you really ought to learn to accept the same from your own daughter.  It is just.”  This was the unmitigated truth and Javert spoke the words using the same authoritarian tone he used to inform arrested criminals of their charges.  He observed with amusement as Valjean blinked with incomprehension and Cosette’s jaw dropped. 

 

“No I do not force – this is not – you cannot claim –“ Valjean stuttered, and Javert struggled in a losing battle to restrain the smile on his face as he watched Valjean fail in multiple attempts to refute the statement and become increasingly agitated in the process.  Color was rising in Valjean’s face and within a second he had turned the shade of the ripe tomatoes in the garden. 

 

Marius’ gaze darted back and forth between the two of them during their exchange and he finally found his voice, “No, wait a moment.  You shot this man at the barricades.”  He gasped in sudden realization, and reached to pull Cosette back abruptly, “Are you being haunted by his ghost?”   

 

“No, he is alive and not a ghost.” Valjean turned back to face Marius, “Though he had haunted me in life far more than a ghost would ever be capable.  Cosette, Marius, please make yourselves comfortable.  Javert and I need to have a word in private.” 

 

Valjean redirected his attention to Javert to find his gaze focused on something infinitely far away and drifting everywhere but the face in front of him.  “Whatever misgivings you have of the police,” Javert said, as he closed his eyes, “do not think for one moment that we haunt people.”

 

“Not the police.  Just you.”  Valjean closed his hand around Javert’s arm and pulled hard in his haste to get him out of the room.  Instead of feeling the man stumble after him, however, he almost lost his footing as his upper body lagged behind his feet.  He turned his head to look back at Javert in shock.  Javert had regained his strength and now, as it was decades ago, he became unmovable when he took a stand.  “Come with me, Javert,” Valjean let go of the arm and commanded him instead.

 

“No, papa, I am not the starving girl you found in the woods anymore.  What are you trying to protect me from?”  Cosette pled, beseeching him with her eyes to finally reveal the whole truth.  He had barely been able to say no to her the last time she asked, and this time it was even more difficult.  Beside her, Marius looked on with a pale face.  Valjean knew that at the very least he must disclose enough to explain to Cosette that Javert did not kill her mother, but how could he do so without raising questions of why Javert had tried to arrest him in Montreuil?  How could he do so without lying?  He turned his head to the heavens and swallowed to keep the tears in his eyes from falling.  So be it.  He had already given up on being able to see her again and no matter what she thought of him his love for her will never change.  The biggest reason he had decided to cut contact with her was because he did not want her to be the daughter of a convict imprisoned for life.  That was no longer a concern.  “The entire truth can only come from God in His time, Cosette, I will tell you what I can but give me one moment…”

 

He took a step towards Javert until they stood chest to chest, and looked up into the blue eyes.  Javert looked back with concern, as if he hadn’t expected that it would make Valjean sad to see his daughter.  Valjean declared with as much righteousness as he once felt when he insisted that five years was too long a sentence for stealing one loaf of bread, “We have never agreed on much, Javert, but when have I forced you – when have I done anything to you behind your back?”

 

Javert thought of all the times Valjean had escaped under his watch, but he knew those do not count as things done to him.  He shook his head.  “Never.  Even when you strangled me you did it in plain view.” 

 

“We were very young then, and you had said something very hurtful to me.” Valjean had not thought of that incident when he made his previous comment, and now the shame of the memory curbed his anger.  “You always had your reasons for doing things, even though I rarely comprehend them.  That night you were there on duty to arrest a convict at Fantine’s bedside, and she was near death already.  If you think it is important above all else for a man to do his duty, then forgive yourself for doing what you had to!”

 

Valjean kept his eyes on Javert’s face and saw the expression of concern falter.  At least the man was capable of embarrassment.  The two of them stood paralyzed in the middle of the living room, both men old enough to be grandfather to the young couple standing with them, both red in embarrassment.  Javert broke eye contact and said in a stoic tone, “That thing which I said to you in Toulon was the truth.  As is what I will tell you now,” he breathed out and continued in a softer tone, “I can’t imagine why you would find this hurtful -- You have done nothing to your daughter which requires her forgiveness.”  _The only people who could forgive you are the owner of the bakery and the chimney-sweep you stole from, and your sister’s child you failed when you stole instead of finding steady work._ “Speak the truth.”

 

“But what I want from her – Cosette, what I want from you is not forgiveness – you couldn’t forgive me for a mistake I made before you were even born.  What I wish is understanding – you must understand that all those years I spent in the chain gang did not make me any less of a man.”  Cosette gasped and he held her close as he said to Javert, “Understanding is even more difficult to achieve than forgiveness, and maybe one day the two of us will have it for each other.”

 

“Understanding can only come after honesty, and even then it will take time,” Javert said.

 

“Come sit with us, Marius, Cosette; this is a long story.”  Valjean said as he ushered everyone towards the dining table.  “And the inspector will correct me if I leave out anything.”

 

As everyone began moving, Javert saw that Marius lagged behind.  “He freed me at the barricades.  You were not the only one he saved that night.”  When Marius stared back at him in confusion, Javert took half a second to process the situation before looking to Valjean in disbelief, “You didn’t tell them?”

 

Valjean could scarcely give Javert a look of disapproval before Cosette embraced him with such ferocity that he staggered a step backwards.  Javert flung his arm across Valjean’s back to help him regain balance as Cosette buried her face in his chest. “You were the one that saved Marius?!  Papa!” 

 

Javert subtly backed away from them to allow them privacy as Valjean did his best to shush Cosette through his own tears.  Javert had spent hours while practicing his swings to mentally work through the different possible reasons why Valjean would cease all contact with them despite being under enough emotional turmoil to break down that night.  Perhaps someone in Marius’ family disliked him – the man was certainly capable of being exasperating, or he forcefully removed Marius from the barricades without Marius’ consent.  He never considered the possibility that Valjean simply neglected to mention that they are happily married only because of him.  _So much wasted time…_ He turned to Marius with a sigh.  At the Gorbeau Tenement this young man had alerted the police to a planned robbery, but then failed to fire the pistols to signal the police to rush in.  Javert had charged in when the situation became critical and then never saw the victim’s face because he freed himself in the ensuing confusion and fled.  Marius was incompetent but at least he meant well.

 

Javert caught Marius’ shoulder and turned him to speak face to face.  “You owe this man your life.  Treat him well until the end of your days.” 

 

Marius nodded and said earnestly, “Yes, inspector Javert.  I still have your pistols at home.”  Javert saw that he was genuine and turned to address Cosette.  Valjean had managed to get her to let go of him for the moment.

 

“Madame Pontmercy.” Cosette and Valjean both looked up at him, and he said after some hesitation over the wording, “Before your father tells everything from his perspective – I contributed to your mother’s death when I rushed to judge her based on the evidence without understanding her situation.  That is all.”  And he saw that Cosette did not know what to make of his confession, but Valjean sighed as he nodded in agreement.

 

Lucién, who had been standing awkwardly next to the table uncertain whether he should stay or go, walked up to Javert as the group approached.  Javert pointed out the back door and told him, “There is a baby crow in a nest on the second branch of the Maple tree.  Go see it, you should be able to see the bird’s head if you jump while standing at the right distance.”

 

As Lucién ran towards the back door, Valjean called to him, “Lucién, what is the first letter in the word ‘crow’?”

 

“See!” He answered as he ran out the door, “I can even use it in a sentence: I want to go see the baby bird!”

 

Valjean buried his face in his hands as Javert muttered, “Exasperating, inexplicable, _and_ a bad teacher.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucién, you make Valjean sad.
> 
> Javert 1: Valjean 0 for this round.
> 
> For those who are not familiar with The Crow and the Pitcher, it basically goes like this. A crow tried to drink water in a tall narrow pitcher but its beak gets stuck well before it could reach the water. It then collects and drops many pebbles into the pitcher until the water level rose enough for it to drink.
> 
> One more chapter in Paris then they depart for Montreuil. Thanks for reading. Please do not hesitate to leave comments and thoughts and wishes.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dec 19 2013 Moderate edits were made to CH18, with added dialogue that will tie into future chapters. However, the plot in that chapter remains unchanged.

Javert sat at the dinner table and studied all the written records on the town of Montreuil, at least everything he was allowed to request from the town’s prefecture at Arras, with due-diligence.  They had generously sent copies of it to Paris and he picked them up earlier in the day along with a new set of handcuffs and a standard-issue cudgel.  Across from him Valjean pointed to words on a page and listened as Lucién read out the letters, then guessed at the word they combined to form.  Javert monitored their progress while he hid behind the report in his hands.

 

He had sorted the thick stack in front of him in chronological order, separating out all the annual reports from the less informative correspondences.  A different man had written the report every year.  The subsection on the police activity in town was even more alarming -- not only a different name was listed each year under the title of chief inspector, but also multiple names in some years.  This much had been immediately obvious to him when he previously read these same reports out of a perverse and spiteful need to see what would happen to a town run for years by a parole-breaker.  He had not been surprised to learn that the town had decayed back to the condition before his arrival there; what was surprising was the quickness of it -- most of the progress he witnessed had disappeared within just one year after his departure.  As year after year went by and the town kept going downhill, he had kept reading hoping to see how quickly the town would rebound when the king appointed a good mayor, but that never happened either.  He was once sure all the problems originated from the many criminals running free in the town, all let out early from their too short sentences.  Now he knew it was in large part due to the failure of the mayors to measure up to their predecessor.

 

He was certain the council at the prefecture had agreed to let him transfer into the position in Montreuil not because they were kind, as he suspected Valjean thought.  Frequent change of chief inspector can only indicate that something was very wrong in the town.  Either every chief inspector had occasion to perform above and beyond the call of duty within months of promotion -- this would be the good scenario of a bad-off town being slowly fixed by men doing their duty -- or at least some of them had been dismissed.  A chief inspector set the culture of the department, and a department that had seen many bad chiefs was likely plagued with a debilitating culture of gross incompetence, or worse, corruption.  The prefect had probably allowed him the transfer there because the town was in such bad shape that no one qualified to be chief inspector would agree to a transfer there – and the problem – or problems – plaguing the department were deeply rooted enough that repeated attempts to promote within the department never brought about fundamental change.  The crime rate had been so high, year after year, that the police force had suffered.  It was impossible to determine the how or why of the situation because there was no way to read between the lines of a page full of numbers that could be complete fabrication.  He used to believe that a magistrate could never be wrong, could never act dishonorably.  Ironically he had started doubting that belief while trying to bring down a good mayor.

 

The lack of concrete information made Javert feel ill at ease.  However, he knew that Valjean had managed to come out of Toulon a better man than when he went in, and all he needed to do as mayor was to repeat exactly what he did last time.  Javert knew the entire plan depended on him somehow getting Valjean to be mayor.  They will find what really had been happening once they actually got there.  For now, he would be satisfied with the knowledge that all these problems were fixable given enough time.  He had checked the background of the current mayor, and as far as records showed he was a fisherman with no notable accomplishments.  This may mean that there were similar problems with finding suitable candidates for mayor, and in that case his opinion as chief inspector would sway their next appointment.

 

While he was deep in thought, the crow and hopped unto the seat of one of the empty chairs then onto the table, flapping its wings with just barely enough coordination to gain some height.  It had then waddled to the baguette on the plate in the middle of the table and started pecking at it.  Javert picked up his cudgel from the table and stabbed it in front of the crow to push it away from the baguette as he muttered, “Too many bread thieves in this house.”  

 

Lucién had stopped reading the letters aloud, and Valjean reached over to rip a small piece off the end of the baguette to hand to Lucién, who then tossed it across the table just short of the papers Javert was reading.  The crow hobbled over to pick it up. 

 

“Do not enable a bread thief –” Javert exclaimed as he waved his cudgel at Valjean, but that only made the man laugh harder.

 

Eager for an opportunity to speak in sentences again, Lucién chimed in, “Inspector Javert, you should tell it a story!”

 

Javert froze and saw Lucién was wide-eyed and innocent, much too young to be capable of dead-pan delivery of sarcasm.  The crow had eaten the small piece of bread and had hopped onto his cudgel in an attempt to reach the loaf.  Javert lifted the cudgel as he stood up.  The crow was flicked into the air and it made an ear-piercing screech.

 

“Tell it the story tonight, I will listen too,” Lucién continued.

 

Javert looked to Valjean for help, but Valjean had his head turned away as he gave Lucién a soft smile that reached his eyes.  This was the same smile Javert had seen mothers and fathers give to their children, husbands trade with their wives and brothers share with sisters, time and time again while on patrol.  He did not associate it with the full emotion it conveyed until Valjean had directed one at him weeks ago.  Unconditional love.

 

“What should the crow be, if not a bread thief?” Valjean asked, and Lucién pondered the question for a few seconds as Javert flicked his cudgel up to stall the crow’s progress up it and toward his hand.  It fluttered its wings to slow its descent before Javert caught it with the end of the cudgel.

 

“A dog.” Lucién answered, and Javert could tell from his tone that he was as confident of this as only children could be about things that made absolutely no sense whatsoever.  Valjean looked up at Javert with a twinkle in his eyes and an exaggerated shrug that could only have one meaning -- good luck.

 

Javert grimaced.  “What this crow needs to be is not a dog – it needs to learn to fly.”  He kept flicking the cudgel to keep the bird in the air as he fled the crime scene to the sound of Valjean’s laughter. 

 

The only way the crow could turn into a dog was for it to be eaten by one, but then the crow would be dead and the story wouldn’t make sense.  He would think more about this during the scheduled training for the afternoon – handcuffing a suspicious tree.  The apple tree reached towards the neighboring pear tree with a long branch as if it was about to commit an assault – perfect opportunity to handcuff it a thousand times.  While doing that he would train the crow to fly using his other hand. 

 

 

“Have you decided on an alias yet?  Tell me as soon as possible so I can get familiar with it,” Javert said, as he looked up at the orange glow on the ceiling above the bed.  Valjean had adapted the name Fauchelevent from the man he rescued from certain death underneath a collapsed cart back in Montreuil.  Though the rescued man had left the town even before Valjean’s departure, neither of them recalled for certain whether the man had close relatives or close friends in the town who might have remembered Valjean’s face.  Just to be safe, Javert wanted Valjean to pick an alias that was anything but Valjean, Madeleine, or Fauchelevent. 

 

They lay side-by-side, each squarely on their half of the bed, close enough to feel each other’s presence but not touching, as they had done each night since Valjean began to share the bed with him.  Valjean turned to see Javert’s face in profile.  The light of the candles mounted on the silver candlesticks on the nightstand casted meandering deep shadows that emphasized the already chiseled features on the face.

 

“I was simply going to keep my current first name, Ultimé, because that doesn’t need to be changed,” Valjean said, and when Javert nodded in agreement he continued, “I used the name Fabré briefly so I am already familiar with it, but I am trying to come up with something else.”

 

“What is wrong with that name?”

 

“Well,” Valjean said, soft and hesitant, “I am not a blacksmith.”

 

“You misunderstand the concept of an alias.” Javert turned his head to look at him, “An alias is a fake name, as in, not true.”

 

“Yes, and what was your alias when you went into the barricades?”

 

“Javert.”  Javert pretended that he failed to notice the hypocrisy and answered immediately.  When Valjean gave him a look of disapproval he felt his ears burn.

 

“If you object to using a name that originated from a profession, just pick one of the many that didn’t.  The name Valjean doesn’t mean anything either, and you have been fine with it.” 

 

“A Valjean was a farmer of wheat and barley in Faverolles, had been for generations and generations.  Until me.”  Valjean said, and Javert heard a tenacious pride that he had not heard in the voice for longer than he could remember.

 

“Valjean,” Javert whispered.

 

“Before I stole bread, I grew the grains used to make bread.  Even when Faverolles was starving, we exported more grain than we ever got back as bread --” Valjean continued until his voice cracked.

 

“You still grow things in a garden – it doesn’t have to be a farm in Faverolles.”

 

“Yes I grow many things in my garden, but there won’t be another Valjean after I die, and then the name would cease to mean anything.” Valjean watched as Javert’s jaw muscles tightened and eyebrows drew together.  He reached to hold Javert’s hand and felt a squeeze in return.

 

After a very long silence Valjean spoke up again, “There is a name I have never actually used but that I like.  The students referred to me as Leblanc.”  What small amount of sleepiness Valjean was starting to feel was startled out of him as Javert abruptly rolled over onto his side to face Valjean, pulling the blankets off him in the process.

 

“Ultimé Leblanc?  Did you just attempt to tell a joke?”

 

Valjean sat up and pulled the blankets back out where they were pinned under Javert.  “No, I actually considered changing my name to it after Thenardier recognized me and I saw you at the Gorbeau Tenement -- and was almost certainly going to change it to that if I fled to England with Cosette, as I planned to just before the revolution.  I had already purchased the tickets for the crossing.”  He finished straightening the blankets and looked up to see Javert waving a hand in what looks to be a circle, right up in his face.  Valjean subconsciously pulled back from the hand.

 

“Leblanc – that is so obvious, that is just as bad as the romantic opera Blaise took his wife to see, where the lyricist came up with the brilliant idea to name the main character Amour.”  _As if it was the character’s name and not the way he acted which would convince the audience that he was in love._   Javert buried his face in his hands.  “Leblanc… Ultimé Leblanc, not just white but ultimate white… but no matter how obvious the name was, I would never have left this country to search for you in England.”

 

“Wait, what were you gesturing at… oh.”  Valjean felt around his own face and immediately realized that Javert was gesturing at his hair and beard.  He burst into laughter and pulled Javert close.  “I was probably lucky that you were the only inspector still searching for me.”

 

Javert rocked his body with an emphatic nod, his voice muffled by the hands still covering his face, “Have mercy and pick a different name, else I will be trying not to roll my eyes every time I have to address you as Monsieur Leblanc.”

 

Valjean pulled Javert’s hands away and pulled Javert’s face down into his chest.  He doesn’t remember ever laughing this hard in his life.  “But inspector, someone had recently accused me of forcing mercy on others.”  And all he heard in response was a muffled groan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valjean gets back at Javert this time.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are not familiar with what triple-caped greatcoats look like, please reference this picture:  
> https://janeaustensworld.files.wordpress.com/2012/05/great-coat.jpg?w=500

“Javert will begin his tenure at Montreuil-ser-Mer as chief inspector, and I am going with him,” Valjean said to Marius and Cosette over tea.  One of his arms was draped across the shoulders of Lucién sitting next to him, and he held the teapot out towards Javert with the other.

 

Javert held up his open hand in a universal gesture for ‘no’.  The crow on his shoulder shuffled side to side impatiently.  He stood up.  “We wondered if it would trouble you two too much for us to leave Lucién with you, at least until we manage to get everything under control at Montreuil.  Please excuse me,” he took a shallow bow then turned his back to leave before he could see Valjean roll his eyes.

 

After the emotional reveal a few weeks ago, Valjean had stubbornly gone to visit Cosette and Marius at Marius’ grandfather’s house everyday, even though they insisted that they would make the trip instead.  This continued until they made a point of stopping by the house on Rué Pumét early enough to catch Valjean before he left for his visit.  From then on they had visited Valjean and Javert every other day.  Javert had not sat with them most of the time, instead excusing himself to go practice in the garden.  He was confident he had seen enough people to be able to judge their character without engaging in pointless conversation with them.  Marius had shown his loyalty to Valjean with consistency, over time.  There was no better proof of anything in this world than time.  Three weeks was a very short time but it was enough to dispel his initial doubts of Marius’ dependability.  He was happy for Valjean, but he could do that while running through his obstacle course.  As he stepped through the back door into the garden, the crow called in an excited “Cahhh!” right into his ear which startled him into a grimace.

 

“You can deafen me but God help you if you defecate on my coat.” Javert muttered, and he grabbed the bird off his shoulder and dropped it onto the grass.

 

Inside the house, Cosette shared a smile with Marius and put her hand over Valjean’s, “We are happy for you, papa, that you have finally found someone.  Marius has enough income for us to easily support Lucién and we would love to have him.”

 

“Finally found someone…?” Those words do not even begin to describe his history with Javert, but Valjean knew what Cosette meant and he tried not to blush.  He pulled Lucién closer.  He had seen to it that Lucién spent as much time as possible with Cosette and Marius every time they visited, even though Lucién would sometimes get bored enough by their conversation to ask to go watch Javert in the garden.  Over time he had gotten used to the two of them enough to start opening up to them and ask for clarification when the three of them would reminisce about things that he knew nothing about. 

 

“Lucién,” Valjean looked down to the boy leaning against his shoulder, “Inspector Javert and I are going to a town in the north, and we need you to stay with Cosette and Marius.  We will get you when we are ready for you, alright?”  He secretly feared that Cosette or Marius will wonder why they would think that a boy who used to sleep in the streets would find it uncomfortable to sleep in whatever lodging they found; the real concern was of the safety in Montreuil and he did not want to get into that.

 

Lucién nodded up at him with an exaggerated pout, and it was such a ridiculous combination of gestures that Valjean smiled.  “Javert promised that he would get me, and he always says that promises are never broken.”

 

“Good.”  Valjean whispered and pressed a kiss to his forehead.  “You will go with them when they leave today.”

 

Two more pots of tea later, Cosette stopped Valjean when he got up to refill the pot.  “Papa, if you are to make decent distance today you will need to finish the last bits of packing and depart.  We can visit you in Montreuil after you get settled.  Send us a letter as soon as you have an address, papa.”

 

“Yes, Cosette.  I will go let Javert know you are leaving.”  Valjean said, and he excused himself to go into the garden.  Javert was sprinting, leaping, and spinning his way around an elaborate path which only he could see, in a forward-leaning crouch that left the back of his greatcoat trailing behind him.  He kept his cudgel held out in front of him in a ready position, and every little movement was done with such dexterity and grace that someone who could not see his feet on the ground would think he was flying.  The crow lagged behind him as it did its best to keep up on its two feet and fluttering wings; it carried a small branch in its beak as it mimicked the man dressed entirely in black – top hat, greatcoat, trousers, and riding boots.  Valjean held his breath and followed Javert with his eyes, not wanting to interrupt what was happening.

 

“They are leaving?” Javert made a sharp turn and within a second was in front of him.  When Valjean nodded, he walked around Valjean into the house.  The crow followed behind, still carrying the branch.

 

Javert picked up Lucién and gave him a hug. “You need to learn to read,” he said to the boy as the boy tangled his fingers into his long salt and pepper sideburns.

 

“Yes, and do anything but steal bread,” Lucién said into his jaw.

 

“You understood the stories?”

 

“Yes Monsieur Fauchelevent explained to me that you sit with me so I don’t go to sleep alone because you love me.” At this unexpected response Javert looked over to Valjean, but Valjean had not heard the words and was turned away speaking to Cosette. 

 

“Go, and take the bird with you,” he said as he set Lucién down.

 

“I can?”

 

“It really ought to know how to fly by now, and would not stay long anyway.” Javert spared the bird a weary glance; it was making its way towards the kitchen.

 

Valjean had seen Javert put Lucién back down and walked over.  He ruffled Lucién’s hair, “Care for the crow for as long as it stays.  If it likes you enough, it might continue to stay even after it had learned to fly.”

 

Lucién bobbed his head up and down in agreement, and Valjean walked him over to Cosette and Marius.  Not being one for emotional farewells, Javert simply said to them, “I will watch him, do not be concerned.”  Then headed back into the garden.

 

Valjean said his goodbyes and saw all of them out, spent a couple hours packing the last loose items into a crate, and did a final cleaning.

 

The fiacre driver was waiting outside and Valjean walked through the empty house to the back door.  He had allowed Marius and Cosette to take whatever furniture they wished to keep then given away the rest.  Several crates of books and random odds and ends were already loaded into the fiacre.  It was time to go and Javert was still dressed in his undershirt beneath the greatcoat, swinging a cudgel at something – Valjean had stopped asking a long time ago. 

 

“Stop glaring at the trees.  We should go now.”  He pushed open the door and called out to Javert, and Javert dropped his arm but otherwise made no motion to head into the house.

 

The uniform was still in the same neatly folded configuration as when it was first delivered three weeks ago, sitting on the bottom shelf of the nightstand.  It had taken Valjean a long time to understand that Javert had been putting forth such extraordinary effort out of a need to combat a deep-seated insecurity.  He was a model officer reporting for duty to replace a corrupt predecessor; he will walk into the police station in a few days with a Légion d’honneur medal pinned over his heart, yet he was concerned that he did not deserve to wear the uniform.  Valjean found this to be utterly incomprehensible.

 

“Come in, inspector.”  He ordered with his mayoral tone and walked into the bedroom knowing that Javert would follow.  He unfolded the uniform, unbuttoned it then held it open towards Javert.  “You are ready.  Put this on yourself or I will put it on you.” 

 

Javert gave the uniform a look which Valjean could not decipher, then turned to put his arms through the sleeves.  He smelled faintly of sweat and strongly of pine sap.  While Javert sat on the bed to change into the uniform pants, Valjean squatted down to button up the front of the uniform shirt.  It was a bit loose, but Javert should grow into it nicely as he continues to gain back weight.  He worked from the bottom up, pulled the two halves together at each button then slipped the button through its buttonhole with a quick practiced movement; he tugged with more force than necessary at the cloth on the upper chest, the motion burned into his arms through daily repetition, as he covered the branded numbers on his own chest from the world each morning.  He ran his hand down the buttoned seam and smoothed the placket.

 

Valjean picked up the medal from where it sat next to the silver candlesticks, and pinned it to Javert’s uniform.  Javert reached to still his hand.  “No.”

 

“No?”

 

“Only the ribbon is worn, except over dress uniforms or in death,” Javert explained, and it was simply him explaining a fact Valjean previously had no reason to know, but something about the words made Valjean flinch.  “Just detach the piece shaped like a laurel from the ribbon and I will carry the medal in my pocket,” Javert said, and he watched as Valjean disassembled the medal then deposited it down into his side pocket.

 

 “Valjean,” Javert said, “you should not love me.”

 

Valjean looked up into his eyes.  “Too late.”

 

“Then know that an inspector will knock on your door one day to hand you a condolence letter.”  Javert met his gaze and Valjean gave him a pained smile while looking deep into his eyes.

 

“No,” Valjean whispered.

 

“Yes,” Javert insisted.

 

“No, I won’t get one because I wouldn’t be able to write it,” Valjean said with a sad, forced smile, “But that is my problem, not yours.”

 

“When that time comes, remember that it is an honor to receive that letter.” Javert opened and closed his lips as if he wanted to continue to speak, but did not make any further sounds.

 

“We must leave now, do not speak on this further.”  Valjean said, and they walked together to the waiting fiacre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Act II begins next chapter with their arrival at Montreuil. As I researched various topics for this part while posting Act I, many plotlines (re-)wrote themselves. It was a thrilling experience, and continues to be when I am not pulling my hair out trying to make things actually make sense.
> 
> Please keep reading and keep leaving comments.


	21. Chapter 21

The two and a half day trip from Paris to Montreuil happened without incident.  The two hundred thirty kilometer trip could have been made by a single rider on a horse in one long day, but the fiacre, weighed down by their belongings, went at only about a quarter that pace.  They exited Paris as the sun set to their left, and the tall dirt and brick tenement buildings they were leaving behind dissolved into nothing more than tall rectangular shadows on both sides.  Javert kept his head turned to the open window while Valjean held his hand.  Under his watch the buildings gradually became sparser and diminished, and the stars reclaimed more and more of the night sky until they reached all the way to the horizon.

 

They followed one of the main military roads north out of Paris, passed many watch stations and stables with express riders and horses.  “Every sixteen kilometers,” Javert had explained, “That is about the distance a well-rested horse could maintain a gallop.”  They stopped along the way only to eat and sleep, and when they woke up the second morning at a small inn just south of the city of Beauvais, recently harvested fertile fields stretched out in every direction around them, seemingly to the end of the world.

 

“Faverolles is not far to the east,” Valjean said as he pointed at the sun.

 

“Yes.” Javert said as he inhaled the fresh air that smelled like soil and grass, “I had traveled this road before but never stopped to appreciate the scenery.”

 

The road continued north to Amiens and Abbeville, and where it used to continue to Montreuil-sur-Mer until it ceased to be a strategically important fortified town on France’s northern border about two hundred years ago.  Now the military road continued north towards Calais, and they stopped for the second night just past Abbeville where they turned off onto a smaller road for the final twenty kilometers to Montreuil.

 

They woke before dawn and as noon approached they saw the ramparts of Montreuil rise out of the fields in front of them.  Valjean would drop off all their items at temporary lodging and search for a house, then do whatever he needed to restart the rosary business with all his prior knowledge.  The biggest point of concern he expressed while they spoke in the fiacre was that maybe someone else was targeting the same market with a similar product, in which case he wouldn’t want to force them out of business.  Given that the town’s current largest employer were the fisheries down at the docks according to the annual reports, however, even if someone were making the exact same rosaries they must not be running the business well at all.  They each had weeks upon weeks worth of work to finish as quickly as possible.

 

Javert stepped out of the fiacre at the police station and barged right through the front door with the official letter of appointment from the prefect in his hand.  He was greeted by the sight of a station full of uniformed officers lounging around, chatting with each other at their desks.  They looked up at him and the chatter gradually died down.

 

“Are you inspector Javert?” The young inspector at the front desk asked.

 

“Yes, I am Javert.  I am here to meet with chief inspector Perrault.”  The people in the station started to mumble and mutter, and this irritated Javert beyond belief.  Not only were they not on patrol during the middle of the day; they fail even to conduct themselves professionally.  His mental list of changes to be made had grown exponentially by the second since he stepped through the door.

 

“Perrault hasn’t shown up to work for the past two days, ever since he received advanced notice from the prefecture at Arras that you were due to arrive soon to replace him.”  The young man explained, and at least looked slightly embarrassed by the words coming out of his mouth.  Javert committed his face to memory -- at least this one could be kept.

 

“It is standard protocol to stay on duty until the replacement arrives, unless there is an emergency at the new post.  Was there one?”

 

The young man turned to look to the older inspectors in the station, and when no one spoke up, said, “We don’t know.”

 

“Did he at least leave a report on the department?” Javert tried one last question, and heads started shaking ‘no’ even before he finished the sentence.

 

He consciously switched to his military voice to address the young man, “I have been appointed chief inspector of this town, effective immediately.  Who is on patrol right now, and why do I see nine officers sitting idly in the station in the middle of the day?”  At this, finally everyone stood at attention.  Two men who looked to be in their late thirties or early forties stepped out from where they were sitting on the bench near the coal burning stove.

 

“Chief inspector, we are the patrol commanders.  Chief inspector Perrault used to assign us on patrols only when there is reported activity, so we have not been out on patrol these past two days.”

 

“You are telling me there are no uniformed officers on patrol right now.”  Javert scanned the room again.  He wondered if the entire world had conspired to pull a prank on him, like that time the newly promoted Préfet Gisquet negotiated free entry for everyone in the department to attend a performance of their choice at the Comédie-Française. Only in Paris would patrol commanders be ordered to take time off from duty with his entire unit to build esprit de corps – by taking them to a comedy. He requested tickets to a performance of Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing in an inspired act of silent protest, but ended up sitting grim-faced for two and a half hours as he wondered how Gisquet managed to talk the entire audience into his prank, because everyone was laughing at a play that was too incomprehensible to be funny. 

 

But no one was laughing now in the entire station. He did not just walk into a massive criminal conspiracy to tell a joke. 

 

“No, sir.” 

 

“Explain your normal duties.”

 

“We go out and make arrests when crimes are reported to us, and send the criminals to Arras for trial,” one of the patrol commanders answered with a hint of condescension.

 

Javert noticed with a sinking feeling in his stomach that everyone’s initial respect for him had given way to varying degrees of mistrust and suspicion.  The official description of an inspector’s duty explicitly listed service on patrols, but only at the discretion of the superior officer.  He couldn’t dismiss these people even though they were all a disgrace to their uniforms.

 

“Inspector, stay at the station until we return.”  He said to the young man, then turned to face the others, “You two will each lead two officers on patrol, now.  The remaining two will come with me.”

 

“Patrol where?” 

 

Javert mentally recalled the map of Montreuil and drew on it the different patrol paths he used to assign.  Perhaps in ten years time people could change and buildings could fall, but the town he served with dedication must still be here somewhere -- at least the streets must still mostly be the same.  “Bring me a map of the town and a pen,” he commanded.

 

As he waited for them to bring a map, he hoped that whatever Valjean was having better luck with whatever he was doing at that moment.

 

 

After dropping off Javert at the station, Valjean directed the fiacre to what used to be the busiest inn in town.  The inn looked distinctly run-down and the dining room was mostly empty even though it was time for the midday meal.  Valjean looked in through the front door in dismay.  He had stopped here because it used to be a popular gathering place for the townspeople.  He pulled the hat back up a little higher on his head -- it sat low on his brows and pushed them down into his eyes – he was going to go ask people about businesses and houses in the town and was concerned that he might be recognized.  _What happened to everyone?_

“Please wait for me to go check the nightly rates at this inn,” he said to the fiacre driver and entered the inn.  The inside of the inn exhibited a closer semblance to its previous splendor than the outside did, but that was still not much of a comfort.

 

The nightly rates were only about three-quarters what he remembered, and someone he didn’t recognize now ran the inn.  He paid for a room and gathered from a brief exchange in the process that criminals were running rampant in town and loitering around the docks.  Now the inn mostly only served travelers passing through the town each night.  He moved the crates up to the room with the inn owner’s help then got back into the fiacre.  If he couldn’t get information over a meal as planned, at least he could go dig up the chest of money he buried when he originally fled the town while the fiacre was still here.

 

Just south of the town Valjean directed the fiacre near a small stand of trees then asked the driver to leave.  He dug out some of the hundred thousands of Francs that came from him selling his factory, and that he had intended to invest back into the new factory.  He had originally planned to just dig everything out at once as soon as he settled down, but now that the town sounded even less safe than he expected, he only dug out ten thousand, which he figured to be sufficient to put down a first payment for a factory building.  He belatedly realized that he should find an old looking coat and sew all the notes into the lining, like he did when he first got to Paris.

 

After carefully refilling the hole, he stuffed the stack of notes into the inside pocket of his vest and walked back into town, to the street market along Rue Pierre Ledent to buy the coat.  There were far fewer shops on the street and the shops that were open for business sold only item of necessity.  He wondered what happened to all the goods traded dropped off at the docks by merchants who entered the Canche River from where it lead into the English Channel.

 

The two clothing shops were such a disheartening sight that they begged to be contrasted with the famous clothier in Paris which specialized in coats and which Valjean ordered Javert’s greatcoat from.

 

_“Which wool?  We have this thinner but softer, finer merino, if you want rough and thick, we have this virgin wool from England…” the young clerk offered small sample squares of fabric for him to touch, but he was too busy searching everything nailed to the wall behind the front desk for fabric which was close in color to the deep black he remembered of Javert’s old greatcoat._

_“I need it thick and warm, the warmest you have.”_

_“Then you want this one – Austrian boiled wool fabric that is naturally water-repellent and wind-proof.  Only comes in solid black though.”_

_“Yes, this is perfect.  I want a triple-caped greatcoat made to these measurements.” He handed the clerk the piece of paper with all the numbers he got from Javert._

_“We also have a proprietary fabric treatment which will make the coat fire-resistant,” the clerk said as he did calculations to figure out how much yardage the measurements would translate to._

_“Yes, I will take that.”_

_The clerk looked up at him, astonished, “I am required by the owner to offer this to every customer but few ever want to pay for it.”_

_“My friend has a habit of sitting too close to stoves,” Valjean explained.  The inspectors at Montreuil told many jokes about each other – and each other’s mothers and sisters – which were crass and not worth repeating.  However, the only joke he’d ever overheard them tell of Javert was that his greatcoat was originally white – before he sat too close to the coal stove too many times and it got charred and stained to a uniform solid black.  “In fact, if you have any other treatments I will probably want them too.  If I could I would pay for it to be waterproof, fireproof, and bulletproof,” he added after some thought, only half joking._

_“We can’t do that – what in the world is your friend planning to do with the greatcoat?!”_

_“He is a police inspector.”_

_The clerk’s face fell.  “I’m sorry,” he said._

_“Why?”_

_“One died outside on the street just last week.”_

_Valjean looked outside the storefront windows into a busy street and noted with a heavy heart that it was probably one of the safer streets in the city.  “How much does it come to, and when will it be ready?”_

_“Ninety-five Francs for the coat – your friend is tall and big-chested, it will take a lot of fabric.  In fact, the coat will be quite heavy.  Extra twenty Francs for the fire-resistance treatment, and it will be ready in five days.”_

_“Put the coat and the fire-resistance treatment on different receipts.”_

 

 

While absent-mindedly browsing the few items offered for sale, he noticed a group of three police inspectors walk by, audibly complaining to each other about an inspector Javert and grousing about how much longer it was until they could quit for the day.  Valjean couldn’t help but stare at them, despite his instincts not to draw attention.  Everything about them, beginning with the attitude, was wrong for the uniform they are wearing.  He had seen a few inspectors like these in Paris but they tended to be singletons, and he had never seen them so blatant about their displeasure, so shameless while on duty.  In his experience even the most corrupt inspectors would not take bribes in the open.  How did things get this bad?  He lowered his eyes when one of the inspectors turned to look at him, and went back to act like he was shopping for a coat.

 

“Are you new in town?  Why are you looking at these threadbare used coats when you are wearing such a nice coat?”  The inspector walking at the front stepped up right in his face and jabbed the coat in his hand with his cudgel.  Valjean dropped the coat and held up his open hands in a universal gesture of surrender.

 

“Yes, inspector, I am in town for a few days and am only looking to buy a coat for a friend…” It was a lie but not the worst he had ever uttered, and he did not feel safe enough to think of ways to defuse the situation without lying.

 

The inspector laughed, “What a cheapskate!”  And the other two joined in the laughter.  Valjean stood there awkwardly, unable to decide whether he would help his case by acting indignant and offended.

 

“Inspectors, have you stopped your patrol to make an arrest?”  Valjean heard Javert’s voice exactly when he was most needed.  The voice was much more authoritative than what Valjean had recently gotten used to, and he relaxed.  The inspectors backed away from him to face Javert, who was trailed by two very young-looking inspectors as he approached.

 

“Chief inspector, we have stopped to question this suspicious man.  He is new to town.”  And Valjean stared in disbelief as the inspector turned his back to Javert in the middle of answering the question to ask, “What is your name?”  _This man just turned his back to Javert.  Merde._ He had hesitated long enough that he blurted out “Ultimé Leblanc” instead of taking more time to think of something else.  He looked past the inspector to Javert, who had squeezed his eyes shut but otherwise managed to maintain a blank expression.

 

“That is the most apt name I’ve ever seen!  Your mama must have been a fortune teller!”  One of the young inspectors behind Javert exclaimed, and suddenly everyone was laughing – except for the two of them.

 

“Seeming suspicious is not a crime, inspectors.  You will wish Monsieur Leblanc a good evening and continue on your patrol.”  Javert’s flinty voice rose above the laughter, and the first three inspectors ceased their laughter to mumble a weak and disingenuous “Good evening, Monsieur” before they turned to leave.

 

Javert took several steps closer to Valjean until they were at arm’s length, and stood silently at attention, shielding Valjean with his body until the other three inspectors were far down the street.  Valjean saw a floodgate open in Javert’s eyes for a brief moment when he let go of all the pretense at composure and dignity, and all the emotion there could be described with a single word: disappointment.  Valjean couldn’t bear to maintain eye contact but said in a soothing tone, “I am staying for a few days at the inn on Rue Carnot.”  Then he willed himself to make eye contact again, and whispered softly to Javert, “I know.”

 

“Complete disgrace,” Javert whispered back, and turned to walk back in the direction he came from, herding the two young inspectors behind him like a duck trying to get unruly ducklings to cross a busy street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Javert is a really odd man.
> 
>  
> 
> Readers who wish to see a map of the ramparts of Montreuil, please refer to the picture at the bottom of this page.  
> http://www.fortified-places.com/montreuil/


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all.

As soon as Javert had disappeared down the street, Valjean picked up the threadbare coat made of unbleached linen and immediately paid for it.  He just witnessed the impossible scene of police inspectors disrespecting Javert, and this made him aware of the severity of the situation more than everything else he had noticed before.  He went back to the inn with the coat and worked under the light of candles mounted on his silver candlesticks to cut open the hem and stitch all the notes under the lining.

 

The clerk at the front desk led Javert up to the room when he asked for a Monsieur Leblanc.  By that that time Valjean had already eaten and Javert was in such foul mood from work that he did not have the appetite to go downstairs and order food.

 

“You must eat.” Valjean told him, and within the few seconds of him taking his eyes off the sewing he had pricked his finger with the needle hard enough to draw blood.

 

“I will ask for a bowl of soup,” Javert said, and left the room to return a few minutes later with a steaming bowl in his hand.

 

“What soup is it?”

 

“Watered down vegetable soup.” Javert tilted his spoon to show the clear liquid.

 

Valjean decided against pushing him to eat more for now.  He settled for, “Eat something before you leave tomorrow,” instead.  Javert nodded.

 

When he woke up the next morning, Javert was already gone.

 

After he put down one month’s rent in advance at a small, two-bedroom house that was nothing special but good enough, Valjean headed back to the inn to write to Cosette so she would have their new address.  He wanted to move all their belongings into the house tonight even if they spent a second night at the inn afterwards, if Javert wasn’t already exhausted when he got back.  He desperately wanted to get these trivial things dealt with so they could focus on the real things – fixing the entire police department and getting businesses back into the town.  Until then, he would need to fight the feelings of unease and disappointment he felt from almost everything he saw.

 

When Javert finally got back quite late at night, he was tired but unbowed.  He explained to Valjean briefly that all of the inspectors who had previously served under him had either done well enough to have been promoted elsewhere, or gradually fallen out of the service.  Few of the subsequent hires stayed long, and he suspected that most of those who stayed did so for nefarious reasons, probably bribe money.  Some older men of good conscience signed for the service, but only when there were no other options. 

 

‘That sounds like a very bad situation,” Valjean said when he stopped speaking. 

 

“I am dealing with it.  You said you rented a house.  We should move in tonight.”

 

They then ate a quick meal and moved everything into the new house.  Valjean took note of the necessary furniture he would need to buy tomorrow, a bookcase and a coat rack, and he was amazed by how quickly the two of them could get things done when they agreed on what to do.

 

The building that used to house his rosary factory was still standing, and was now used to a small fraction of its capacity by a small business which pickled and jarred the fish caught down at the docks.  Montreuil was divided into a landlocked upper town containing all the municipal buildings, surrounded completely by one set of ramparts complete with a citadel on the north end and bastions along its length, and a smaller lower town which contained the docks and was surrounded by a second line of ramparts.  He had moved his factory to the center of the upper town when he became mayor to make it easier to travel to the factory from the mairie, but it made no sense to set up a factory which worked with fresh fish so far from the docks.  When Valjean asked the owner why he chose to set up the factory an entire fifteen minute walk from the docks, he was informed that the docks were too unsafe for workers.  Valjean filed this piece of information away in his mind to tell Javert later, and inquired about all the old presses for shaping the glass beads he had left in the factory when he left.  The owner had looked surprised that someone would ask of those presses and walked him into a backroom, where all the presses were piled in one corner, covered in cobwebs and dust.

 

After spending most of the morning cleaning and checking through everything, he paid the owner very generously for the four presses which were still functional, and sets of polishing, carving, and grinding tools used in the labor-intensive finishing process.

 

The raw material for the glass beads consisted mainly of sand and soda ash, both locally available and virtually inexhaustible.  The docks in the lower town overlook the Canche River, which was silted up with fine sand on both banks as it flowed thirteen kilometers downstream to the docks at Etaplés, where it emptied into the English Channel.  And anyone could reach into the ocean there with bare hands to harvest seaweed that could be cured then burned to make soda ash.  That the critical raw materials were readily available near the town was the reason why he originally decided to start a business to produce glass bead rosaries.  People could change within years but a town’s natural resources could not, and he found comfort in this constancy.  He would also need to find some supply of nickel to stain the glass black, but there almost was a constant supply of it coming from Russia as it was used to make many other things.

 

He left the machines with at the factory for the moment and walked around the town to find a small building appropriate to start his factory.  With only four presses to begin with, he expected to at most hire only ten employees.  This meant even a building the size of a normal house would be enough, as long as it could be modified to have multiple furnaces to melt the glass.

 

Once he had a clear idea of what he needed, he was able to quickly narrow down the possible buildings.  He chose a small building on the edge of the upper town, near one of the main exits to the docks.  It would make more sense for his factory to be located in the lower town just as it would be for that of the pickled fish factory, but the owner had sounded so certain that opening a factory near the docks would be a bad idea that Valjean decided not to bother to go check for himself.  Weeks had passed since Javert first asked him to be mayor and he still had no better understanding of why, aside from the fact that Javert wanted it.  Just as before, a factory located in the upper town would be much more convenient for him to deal with when he had to double as mayor, and he trusted that Javert would see the promise to make him mayor through.  So he put down rent for the building then moved all his presses and tools in.

 

The next day he spent the morning to contract the construction workers in town who specialized in installing fireplaces for installation of furnaces.  By the early afternoon he had scheduled for the installation to begin the next day, and be completed over three days.  After that, he made a brief stop at the town’s small church to place a ten franc note into the anonymous donation basket, which contained only a few small coins.

 

He used the remaining time in the day to stop by the mairie and seek audience with the maire to introduce himself and seek his blessing to start the factory.  He struggled through an inner conflict between a need to see the alleged bad mayor with his own eyes before condemning him, and fear that this man who most certainly did not reside in Montreuil before would somehow recognize his face anyway.  But a formal introduction with every newcomer to town was a courtesy he sought as mayor and therefore was a courtesy he should offer to this man.  

 

The inside of the mairie was the same white as he remembered, with simple wood furniture in the lobby and portraits of generals who held invaders at bay at the ramparts long ago.  Maire Plourde had summoned him into the office after he let the valet at the door know that he was there to inquire about starting a business.

 

Plourde was a stout man, not much younger than himself.  The brightly dyed teal blue silk cravat around his collar jumped out at him; it was tied in the more fashionable mail coach knot than the simple and formal bow.  Valjean lowered his eyes, “Monsieur le maire, my name is Leblanc.  I would like to restart a rosary factory which I heard was successful here before.” 

 

“Ah, yes, though there used to be many more merchants here,” Plourde said, as he produced a rosary from the inner pocket of his jacket, made of black stones polished to a dull gleam, “I assume you won’t be making the rosaries out of Whitby jet?”

 

Whitby jet was a black carve-able gemstone mined predominantly in Whitby, hence the name, and which was extremely popular in England at the time.  “No, monsieur le maire, I will be working with jet glass, which most people know as the poor man’s Whitby jet.”  The English heavily limited the supply of Whitby jet outside their country, and in consequence even a small brooch made of it could sell for an exorbitant sum in Paris.

 

“How far are you along with the preparations?” Plourde asked casually as he pulled what looked to be a gold watch out of his pocket to check the time.  Both his jacket and his vest had the distinct supple appearance of fine velvet, and though he was behind his desk such that his trousers were not visible, Valjean suspected they were probably also velvet to match the jacket.  Multiple bronze busts looked on from around the office, along with vases and other even more opulent decorations which had no reason to be in the office of a mayor whose townsfolk were suffering.

 

“I am ready to start production once furnaces get installed at my factory and I have workers,” Valjean answered with a heavy heart.

 

The mayor’s eyes flashed at this piece of information, and he walked out from behind the walnut wood desk to Valjean’s side and whispered in his ear, “Sounds to me like you will make profits.  Show me some of it before you start work and I will not tax your rosaries too heavily.”

 

It was such a blatant attempt at extortion as to be comical, and Valjean almost laughed out loud when he realized that this man must have forgotten that Javert had taken over the police department almost an entire week ago.  If this type of thing worked with the previous chief inspector, it most certainly would not work now.

 

“Yes, I understand, monsieur le maire.  I will stop by tomorrow with something that will satisfy you.”

 

“No, leave the address to your factory and I will send someone there to conduct an inspection next week.”

 

“Yes monsieur le maire.”  He said, and left his address on a piece of paper printed in big clear font with the valet.  He had barely been able to hide an amused but wistful smile until he got out of visual range of the mairie.  Javert’s wrath lay in wait in this man’s future, as surely as night follows day, and he had no idea what was coming _._

 

Valjean bought a baguette and a bottle of red wine for a quick dinner at home.  Javert had never returned earlier in the day than another two or three hours from now, and Valjean felt energized with excitement that the factory could open as soon as he found enough workers.  Years ago he would walk through the docks almost every night to give alms, and new workers came under his employ during those walks almost as an unintended consequence.  He put on the new coat he finished stitching just last night, and walked to the docks.  There must be many homeless there if people thought it was unsafe.

 

Many visible signs of decay struck him as soon as he exited the inner ramparts.  There were barely any travelers, and every single one he saw were clearly not there with any intention to linger.  All the buildings at the docks were falling apart; there were few boats at the dock besides tiny fishing boats.  He found this saddening but not unexpected.  What did confuse him was that though there were still people in need loitering around the docks, they were not mostly women and children as was the case before.  Now they were predominantly young men, and they all sat on the ground, or stood leaning against a building.  They looked lethargic, and reminded him of the laudanum addicts he had seen in Paris, mostly sailors recently back from a long time at sea.

 

Laudanum was a reasonably cheap drug and it was not uncommon for people of the working class to consume it recreationally for its calming effects and as a sleep-aid.  But something must have gone wrong for so many people to be addicted to the point of debilitation, in a town this small and so lacking in young workers.  He walked along the outer edge of the buildings facing the river, within earshot of all the men.  Some of the lampposts along the edge of the docks were broken, and many stood bereft of a lit lantern.  Under the orange glow of the handful of lit lanterns, the only things that moved were the reflections of the lanterns themselves, as they distorted with the surface of the river.  He tried to catch information from the men’s conversations, but no one spoke.

 

Valjean walked up to a young man who stood with his back against the wall, and who looked more alert than others.  “What are you waiting for here?”  He asked, and that young man looked up at him with eyes so red that Valjean could tell they were bloodshot even under only the light of lanterns far away.  Fear gripped his heart as the young man looked down at his clothes and obviously took note of the nice jacket and trousers he had on underneath the coat.  He took hurried steps backwards while still facing the young man in case he did anything sudden.

 

When he was far enough from the young man to turn his back, all he saw was a black shadow in his peripheral vision and then an arm was around his neck, choking him, as two people approached him from the front to strip off his coat to get to his jacket.  He tried to butt his head into the man choking him from behind, and one of them said, “Stop fighting and take off your jacket, give us your money.”  The chokehold around his neck tightened, and he had no option but to extend his arms until they remove both his coat and his jacket.  Dizzy by the lack of air, he barely processed what was happening as one of them ran away with his jacket and he was dropped onto the wet wood platform.  He heard a voice grumble “four francs” as he coughed and gasped for breath.  One of them bent over him, and all he saw was a looming shadow before he felt a sharp but lingering pain in his side, underneath his ribs.  They left.

 

Every breath was agony yet he was still short of breath from being choked before.  He reached for his side and the hand came back hot and wet.

 

“Are you alive?”  Someone was tapping at his shoulder, and he coughed out a broken answer.

 

“Find the police…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to leave you all with a stabbing here. It is not meant to be a cliff-hanger in any way, he isn't going to die. It is simply a chance for Javert to be a hero... or not.
> 
> Am currently very excited about a kissing scene I am adding to CH24 by reader request, which had over the past two days evolved into something with plot.  
> \----  
> Readers curious about the look of Whitby jet, please see here:  
> https://www.pinterest.com/jenjen1391/whitby-jet/
> 
> Picture of silt deposit at the mouth of the Canche River, at Etaples:  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Mouth_of_the_River_Canche.JPG


	23. Chapter 23

“They didn’t take your horse, Luc will ride into town to report this to the police, all right?  Keep pressure on that, it might take a long time for the police to get here,” the young-sounding male voice said.  Valjean tried to see the face through his watering eyes, but all he saw was a silhouette under the dim light.

 

“Dock patrols…” He whispered.

 

“No, you must be new here.  Police don’t come here.  Grit your teeth.” And Valjean cried out in pain at a sudden strong pressure and stinging sensation on the wound. “Salt water on my hands, sorry, am a fisherman,” the voice muttered.

 

Eventually his breathing slowed down to something more manageable, and the pain in his side settled into a tolerable dull ache.  “Thank you,” he said as he reached with his hand to catch the man’s arm and gave it a small squeeze.

 

“It wasn’t a knife.  The wound is large but not too deep.  Help me keep pressure on it.”  The man picked up Valjean’s hand and moved it to the wound, and Valjean felt both the flowing warm blood and the cool blood-drenched fabric of his undershirt.  He belatedly realized that he was cold; he shivered.

 

“Did they take my coat?”

 

“They left it on the ground, but can’t get to it without leaving your side,” Valjean heard the man say as he began to drift in and out of consciousness.  “Don’t worry, Luc knows to get a doctor from the hospital if the police don’t come.”

 

“You are lucky that we had trouble with a broken net today…” He caught a few more of the man’s words, but their meaning barely registered as his mind was occupied by thoughts of his own guilt.  He wondered how he did not stop and think twice before he left alone for the docks at night.

 

 

“Inspectors!” Luc called out to the three uniformed officers strolling on the Promenade des Remparts which ran along the walls, not far from the entrance he took into the upper town.  He urged his horse to turn onto the road and caught up to them.

 

The inspector who walked in front turned to face him.  “Yes, Monsieur.”

 

“There was an assault at the docks.  A man is injured.”

 

“Report it to the station,” the young man said apologetically.

 

“You can’t help me?”

 

“The docks is out of our patrol path, and we have been strictly forbidden by our new chief to deviate from it.  I would offer to help you report it to the station but you will get there faster on horse.  We have a new doctor on staff, he is also at the station.”

 

Luc sighed with resignation and turned his horse back to his original path.  He was surprised to see police patrols, but should have known better than to expect them to be helpful.

 

Like most men in town, Luc spent his childhood on a farm.  He was therefore an unusually quick rider for a fisherman, and he leapt off the horse at the station and called to the young officer at the desk, “Inspector!  Someone was stabbed at the docks.” 

 

He was not surprised when the door to the inner office flew open and a man he did not recognize emerged from it.  He had seen many chief inspectors during his few years in town, and a few of them had transferred in directly to the position of chief inspector.  Few of them showed any sense of urgency the few times he had reported crimes, and he was moved by the simple fact that this chief inspector ran as if it mattered to him that a man was bleeding out on the ground.

 

“Doctor!  Pack for trauma wound, Platt, get two horses ready, now!”  The chief inspector barked out orders, and Luc felt a burst of wind as the man brushed past his shoulder on his way out the door.  “I am Javert,” the man said quickly.

 

Javert paused outside the door and turned to Luc, “How long ago did you leave the crime scene?  Is the victim dead?  Ride with me --”

 

“No…” Before Luc could process all the questions asked, he had followed the man out the door of the station and around the back to the stables, where an officer had led two horses out.  The doctor met them there with a bag in his hand.  And suddenly he was reaching for the reins of the horse he came on to keep up with the man, who rode off down the street as if he could get on a horse without stopping to actually mount it.  Luc was stunned silent by the amount of competence he saw in the police force for the first time in this town.

 

“Is the man stabilized?”  Javert asked, a lantern which Luc never saw him pick up held out in his left hand to light the road ahead.  Luc looked across and saw that Javert’s posture was completely upright; he could tell that despite setting a pace that strained the others, Javert could be riding much faster.

 

“My friend is keeping pressure on the wound, it was bleeding freely when I left but hopefully he was able to slow the bleeding.”

 

“Did you see the crime?”

 

“Only from a distance, inspector, the man had walked up to a drug addict at the docks, wearing a coat with unpatched holes over a nice jacket and trousers.  Honestly I thought he was a seller until he was attacked.”

 

He was startled when Javert whipped around to look him in the eyes. “Did the victim have white hair and beard?”

 

“Yes, it was very distinctive.  How --”

 

“Stupid, inexplicable… stupid…” Javert looked away and muttered under his breath before asking, “Where exactly is he right now – I will ride there first, doctor, keep up as quickly as you can!”

 

“He is just to the left of where this road ends…” Luc said, and watched in awe as Javert switched the lantern to his other hand, unbuttoned the front of his greatcoat, and spurred his horse so hard it reared before launching into a full gallop. 

 

“Wow, he should teach riding lessons,” the doctor said as he urged his horse faster.  Luc followed him and they both watched as Javert’s black flowing greatcoat faded into the distance.

 

 

 

Javert struggled to keep the lantern level with his weak right hand on the galloping horse, and when he banked into the left turn and the hooves sank into the muddy grass, the weight of the greatcoat against his shoulders almost toppled him off the horse.  He felt the warm and slick lantern oil spill down his right sleeve, and almost reflexively dropped the lantern with a curse.  He was pleasantly surprised when a cursory glance at his sleeve showed that the coat hadn’t caught on fire.  On the back of his mind he recalled that Valjean had mentioned something about special fire-resistant wool, but he did not dwell on that because he could see Valjean not far ahead, with the man by his side.  

 

Javert jumped off his horse seconds before it came to a full stop, the capes and the split tail of his greatcoat spread behind him, and landed with a crash into a crouch with the lantern still in his hand.  He held the dripping lantern up to Valjean’s face and could barely see a hint of recognition in the eyes.  Javert performed a quick visual inspection of the surroundings.  _Blood puddle on the ground was small enough to mean he hasn’t been bleeding profusely for the past ten or so minutes.  Wound close to left kidney.  Piece of wood plank laid on the ground not far away, the sharp end of it bloodied._  

 

“Please, continue keeping pressure, the doctor is just behind me.”  Javert spared a glance of immense gratitude to the man with bloodstained hands, but his heart sank when he looked down at Valjean’s pale face.  He set the lantern down and cupped Valjean’s face with his left hand, “I am Javert.  Keep your eyes on me.”  The face was damp and cold.

 

Javert fought against his instinct to call Valjean by name, and instead gave him a soft slap in the face.  “That was an impressive landing,” Valjean whispered. 

 

“Keep your eyes on me.  The doctor is coming, do you hear me?  Nod if you hear me.”  Javert heaved a sigh of relief when he felt Valjean’s head move against his hand.

 

“Is there an exit wound?” Javert asked the young man next to him.

 

“No, it was a stab along his side more than into him.  Ugly wound but not deep.”

 

“I need more light!”  Javert heard the doctor shout before he could respond.  The lantern on the ground was about to flicker out.

 

“I will find a lantern,” Luc said, but Javert left Valjean’s side to get on his horse and bring back the closest street lantern _._  The lantern was much too far away and when he reached up to unhook it, the fingers of his trembling right hand refused to close securely around the thin metal eyelet.  More lantern oil spilled down his arm, and he swore several choice words as he passed it to his left hand.  

 

When he returned with the lantern, the doctor had cut Valjean’s shirt open around the wound and Valjean was visibly struggling while muttering the word ‘no’.  He fought the hands restraining his arms.  The wound in his side was reopening, and bled more heavily than before.

 

“What -- stop struggling – why are you struggling?” Javert set down the lantern and turned Valjean’s face with a hand under his jaw.  Eyes haunted by fear and despair stared back at him.  Javert looked to the doctor in confusion and saw that he had torn the shirt open around the wound to check it, and was lacing his fingers around the buttons down the front of Valjean’s shirt, pulling it taut as he cut up the front of the shirt.  And in a flash he remembered that he had seen fingers tangled in those buttons before, Valjean’s own fingers, as he ripped open both his shirt and his undershirt in one powerful and decisive pull and announced to a full courthouse, “That man is not Jean Valjean.” 

 

_“I am Jean Valjean,” he yelled, but the raised red welts on his chest said, 246 --_

 

 _No._   “No, doctor!”  The words came out of Javert’s mouth without first passing through his mind as he stopped the doctors hand with his own, “He is… he is cold, maybe going into shock… leave his shirt on.” 

 

The doctor murmured, “I won’t check for other injuries then, chief inspector,” and stopped to instead cut the hole around the wound further towards Valjean’s back.  Javert’s mind caught up to his mouth and he did not respond, instead he shrugged off his greatcoat and folded it along its length, then laid it across Valjean’s chest.  He placed his hand over the numbers through the heavy wool, and Valjean stilled.

 

“No exit wound.”  The doctor extracted his hand from Valjean’s back, where he was checking for blood.  “He will be fine.  Give him this laudanum, I will clean and stitch this up,” he said as he pulled a small flask out of his bag and handed it to Javert. 

 

Javert uncapped the flask with effort -- his right hand still couldn’t close around small items securely – and lifted Valjean’s head while putting the opening of the flask against his lips.  Valjean grimaced and tried to speak,  “Javert… the homeless… now all drug addicts…”

 

“Do not speak.  Your wound is not deep, you can speak later,” Javert said as he pushed the mouth of the flask harder against his lips.

 

“… used to be women and children… were never violent…”

 

“Monsieur, what you have suffered is a shallow wound that only became serious because this town’s police failed you by not being on patrol here.  I urge you not to make it worse than it already is,” Javert said as he pushed the flask against Valjean’s teeth, and when Valjean shook his head half of the laudanum ran down his face.  Javert’s patience was stretched to the breaking point with liquid being spilled, and he barked, “Damn it, take the laudanum.”  When Valjean finally opened his mouth to the flask, Javert only gave him a half dose in case some of the previous spillage actually went into his mouth.  He recapped the bottle and handed it to Luc for him to place back into the doctor’s bag, then tucked his greatcoat around Valjean’s shoulders.

 

Javert kept a hand on the coat as Valjean drifted off, and drew his other arm across his chest for warmth.  He closed his eyes and thanked God that the words he spoke to the doctor were more of a half-truth than an outright lie.  Then his mind drifted back to the scene at the courthouse at Arras years ago.  Valjean had interrupted a trial just as the judge was about to announce the sentence and prevented what would have been a gross injustice.  At the time Javert had fixated on the numbers 24601 and flown into a fit of rage because a criminal had made a mockery of the court.  He considered it nothing more than another crime to add to an already too long tally.  

 

Now that he had relived the moment with all his newfound understanding of the man, he could only conclude that it may have been one of the most noble acts he had ever witnessed.  He turned his head away from the piercing cold wind coming up the river, and hoped that it was what caused his eyes to sting.

 

 

 “Messieurs, please leave your names and contact information with us, we will reward you for your help today.  Are you on your way back into town?” Javert asked the two men when he noticed that the doctor had finished stitching the wound.

 

“Yes, inspector.”

 

“If it is not too much trouble, please take our horses into town and have the officer on duty at the police station send a fiacre here.”  Javert reached inside his shirt pocket to pull out his badge, “Take this with you as proof.”

 

“We will, chief inspector.  Is that –“ Luc nodded towards the ribbon pinned on Javert’s uniform, “A Legion d’Honneur ribbon?”

 

“Yes, Monsieur.”

 

“My father was also a recipient, for his service in the army of Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte,” Luc said before they left.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More than half of this chapter was written while I wore my single-caped wool coat. That is some first-hand research right there. :P
> 
> Hope you all are starting to like the Valjean depicted in this story, who is idealistic to a fault. Comments welcome.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to fellow writer in this fandom, Chrissy24601. 
> 
> If you are interested in reading more Valjean/Javert angst/hurt/comfort, check out her excellent and almost complete WIP, Surrender. 
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/849058

By the time the fiacre arrived, the wound on Valjean’s side was already securely bandaged and the bleeding had stopped completely.  Javert slipped a hand under his shoulders to pull him into a sitting position, and threaded his arms into the sleeves of the greatcoat.  He held Valjean’s head against his shoulder a moment longer than necessary and felt the damp white hair between his fingers. 

 

“Are we taking him to the station to spend the night?” The doctor asked as he finished packing his bag.

 

“I know his address and will take him home,” Javert responded. 

 

“You know him?  But you weren’t calling him by name.”  When the doctor looked up at him in surprise, Javert nodded silently.  Luc and his friend Claude had left with two of the three horses earlier, and they now have with them one horse and the small fiacre.  The doctor clearly was thinking of the same thing, because he said, “Then I will take the horse.”

 

“Thank you doctor.  You saved a life today.”  He had hired this doctor into the department only four days ago, when he found that the department was relying on the paltry medical knowledge of the inspectors on staff to deal with emergencies.  During his previous tenure the department always had at least one person specializing in medical knowledge on staff, and the inspectors back then were overall much more experienced.  Between dismissals of his initiation and officers leaving of their own free will, funds otherwise used for salary had been freed up in the department and he did not hesitate before recruiting a doctor knowledgeable enough to have his own practice.  It was probably the best decision he had made.

 

“I have pledged to save lives, just like any other doctor.”  The doctor said, and Javert nodded in agreement. 

 

“When the town becomes safer and the hospital better managed, you should go work there.”

 

“Hospitals are full of bed-ridden patients; I didn’t expect the work to involve so much…” the doctor gestured at the horse next to him, “… riding when I accepted your offer, but the work here is more varied and exciting.”  He mounted the horse and looked down at Javert, still huddled next to Valjean.  “Get into the fiacre.  You look like you are freezing,” he said, then turned the horse towards the road back to town and left.

 

Javert opened the door to the fiacre, tossed the threadbare coat in, and as he carried Valjean through the door to get him onto the seat, he felt Valjean’s warmth against his chest. The smell in the air was a heady mix of fish and seaweed from the river, almost overwhelming the calming but faint scent from the dense beech forest, red and gold with falling leaves, on the opposite bank.  While not a pleasant smell by any means, it was decidedly not the smell of blood and death Javert remembered of the Seine, and he was relieved because no one would die tonight.  Javert leaned Valjean against the side of the fiacre then exited to give the driver their address before sitting down next to him.

 

His mind drifted back to the docks during the brief ride over uneven roads, already on the chase after the criminals, but with each jolt and each bounce he pulled Valjean a little closer until eventually the man’s head ended back up against his chest.  While he pondered how he could possibly re-arrange line-ups and schedules to both add patrol to the docks and free up men to hunt down the criminals, he looked down to see a mess of white hair framed by the blue of his uniform and the red of the ribbon to complete a tricolor flag on his chest.  The odd idea that perhaps in this cramped and dark fiacre he already had the world entire gave him but a brief pause in his thoughts.

 

A few hours later when Valjean finally woke in earnest, Javert had returned from his trip to the station and was huddling next to the roaring fire in the fireplace.

 

“Water,” he said as he held a full glass to Valjean.  It was not a question.  After he helped Valjean sit up, Valjean was able to hold the cup in his own hands to drink it.

 

“One more,” Javert said, and when Valjean nodded in assent he removed the empty glass and quickly refilled and replaced it.  He watched as Valjean took his time to drink this glass.  “You must not have been fully unconscious because you received only a half dose of laudanum.”

 

He saw a poorly hidden expression of pain and fear on Valjean’s face, but only received an impassive response of, “Yes.”

 

“That was stupid.”  Javert said after a moment of silence.

 

“Yes,” Valjean said again, and he put the half-empty glass next to the silver candlesticks and Legion d’Honneur medal on top of the stack of empty moving crates serving as a nightstand.

 

“Give me a description of the attackers.  No one else saw the attackers’ faces,” Javert said from where he stood next to the bed.

 

“It was too dark.  I could only tell you that it was three young men likely in their twenties, and probably drug addicts.”  Valjean sounded apologetic and tired.

 

“All right.  The police will deal with the drug addicts.  The docks are not safe; do not go there to give alms at night.  In fact, do not give alms.”  At this, Valjean gave Javert a severe look, which he promptly ignored.  “Start your factory and create jobs.  When you become mayor, bring in more businesses and you will save many more people than by placing yourself at risk to give alms.” 

 

“What?” Valjean asked weakly, then insisted, “I simply try to do the duty in front of me, inspector.”

 

“Yes, as do I.  But do it to the best of your ability.”  Javert filled the glass again and set it back onto the nightstand.  “You saw the police inspectors in the department when we first arrived.  The department was understaffed with officers of dubious qualifications and quality.  The easiest thing for me to do would have been simply to hire extra men on top of those already there and enforce a full set of patrols, around the clock.  Instead, I am spending precious staff time on internal audits, dismissing the most incompetent officers and taking the time to hire good new officers.  Right now we are so understaffed that we couldn’t even patrol the upper town where everyone actually lives well, and I made the choice to ignore the lower town and the docks.”  He let his gaze drift down to the medal sitting in its usual place, in between the two silver candlesticks.  “The possibility that an innocent citizen could die at the docks as a consequence of the lack of police presence was a one I took into consideration.  I took a calculated risk, Valjean, and you almost lost your life for it.”

 

He was fully aware of the eyes studying him as he repositioned Valjean back onto the bed.  “You speak as if people were merely num--” instead of completing the sentence, Valjean stopped himself and asked, “Are you trying to tell me you are sorry?”

 

“No.” Javert said as he looked up in surprise, “No, because that would only be true if I will choose differently in the future.”

 

“Good, because I was going to tell you that you didn’t have to be,” Valjean said softly, but Javert was struck by an acute awareness that he had somehow disappointed.  He held the edge of the blanket with his fingers and pulled it back up to Valjean’s chin, then walked over to the window.  The air was noticeably colder near the glass windowpane, even though all he could see on it was a reflection of the fire in the fireplace.  During their trip Valjean had pressed for him to voice his preferences for the house and refused to back down until he said something, so he said, “A window in the bedroom.”  Every night since their arrival the wind blowing inland from the ocean had been cold enough that Valjean had been failing to hide his worsening limp.  When he made the request for the window he expected to see stars, not fire.  But that did not matter much because he will not be spending many nights in this room in the foreseeable future.

 

“I have already rented a factory building and purchased machinery.  The trip down to the docks was an attempt to hire workers, but I will do that in the town later, after I finish overseeing the furnace construction.”  He heard Valjean’s voice behind him.

 

“Good.”

 

“I went to see the mayor, Javert.  He not at all subtly requested bribes from me.”  Valjean said, and paused when he saw Javert’s reflection on the windowpane flinch.  “I let him know that I will give him what he asks.” 

 

Javert turned to face him.  “When and where?”

 

“He is going to visit my factory some time next week.”

 

“This is not going to be as easy as I hoped.  I will go to check with other businessmen to see whether they have also been approached for bribes.” Javert nodded to himself, satisfied with the plan.  “Do you need anything before I leave?”

 

Valjean looked back at him in disbelief.  “You are leaving right now?” 

“Yes.  Perhaps I can find incriminating evidence so that you won’t need to testify.  Everything will be better once you become mayor.”

 

Valjean looked around in silence.  Javert had already moved many things into the room, probably while he was unconscious; he could see at least an almost full water pitcher, towels, a chamber pot, bandages, fruit and a knife.  “Javert.  I don’t need the entire house moved into the room,” he whispered.  “I may have completely misread you, but sometimes you show that you care by not doing anything, so that you can be present.”

 

Javert did not understand the nature of the request so he considered it literally.  “I can do that,” he concluded.  “You should drink another glass of water.”

 

“Later.  Come to bed.”

 

Javert walked over to the wooden bureau in the corner of the room and took off his uniform shirt and pants, folded them and placed them on top of the bureau.  Then he crawled in under the covers.  The bedding and blanket on his side of the bed were cold.

 

“I wrote to Cosette and Marius right after I put down rent for this house three days ago, and already received a response back,” Valjean said after he had settled.

 

“That is very fast.”

 

“Cosette had already composed a letter and only needed to put the address on it when she received mine.  She mentioned something that I don’t understand.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“Lucién took the crow with him on his shoulder when they went to shop at the market.  She said at one point it yelled ‘I am Javert’ at a man who had walked past, and the poor man was so startled that he dropped his baguette and ran down the street.”  Javert felt Valjean’s eyes on his face as he continued, “Cosette said she explained to Lucién that the crow misses you so much it thinks everyone else is you.  Then she teased me for teaching it to say your name.”

 

Javert wondered whether the crow yelled that phrase indiscriminately or it had somehow been able to identify a thief.  If so, he should have thought of ‘keep a flock of trained crows on staff’ when he composed the list of suggestions at the Palais de Justice.

 

“The crow didn’t learn this from me.  I don’t think it had been around Lucién enough to learn it from him.”

 

“I said ‘I am Javert, do not forget my name’ about the first one hundred fifty times I practiced using the handcuffs, until having to say the entire thing slowed me down and I only said ‘I am Javert.’  It must have learned from that.”

 

“I heard you say that a few times to the tree.”

 

“Not a tree, a criminal.  And it was being arrested.”

 

 “You are concerned that the tree did not know your name,” Valjean concluded in disbelief, and Javert saw him reach with his arms.

 

“No, don’t move.”

 

“Then come to me.”

 

When Javert did not move immediately Valjean reached for him again.  He rolled over onto his hands and knees then stepped across Valjean’s body moved to loom above the man, the billowing sleeves of his undershirt touching Valjean’s shoulders.  The unadorned off-white blanket, still draped across his back, lifted off the bed with him and sheltered them both like a giant pair of wings.  Hesitant to get any closer, Javert stopped.  “I am powerless over you,” he said as he gazed into Valjean’s eyes, “I wish you would fear me.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I cannot do my duty unless people fear me.”

 

“But love is a much more powerful motivator.  Love can make people conquer their fears.”  Valjean worked up his shirt and reached up with one hand.  “I did not get to touch these parts last time,” he whispered as he ran his hand along Javert’s right side.  Javert shuddered; almost every recently healed bone in his body ached after he sat in the cold, and an hour next to the fire did not make it stop.  The body heat from Valjean’s palm, comforting yet unrelenting against every rib that was broken, made the pain go away.  After he went through the ribs he extracted his hand to reach for Javert’s trembling right arm, and Javert wondered how he could possibly have known that the arm was what hurt the most.

 

So when Valjean whispered “come closer” as he reached up to place the hand around the back of Javert’s neck, Javert obeyed.  Valjean guided his head down with nothing more than the weight of the hand and Javert dropped to his elbows and yielded to the pull until their faces were merely centimeters apart.  While there he felt the bursts of hot air Valjean breathed out falter in its rhythm, saw the normally calm and serene ocean in those green eyes suddenly smolder then erupt in flames, and Valjean pulled his head down the final millimeters so hard that he almost collapsed.  Wide-eyed with shock, he allowed Valjean’s tongue to thoroughly wet his chapped lips before he opened his mouth to speak.  That was a bad idea.

 

“Nngh,” was all he managed before the tongue darted into his mouth, and Valjean devoured his words voraciously every time he tried after that.  He felt a tingling sensation in his stomach that moved steadily downwards, and when Valjean reached inside his undershirt again it was not humanly possible to remain still.

 

“No, not now… ” He said when Valjean stopped for breath.  He could see that Valjean was flushed and fatigued.

 

“Sorry, I tried to go slow,” Valjean breathed, but did not loosen his grip on Javert’s neck when he tried to back away.  “Stay,” he said, and Javert braced himself as the hand rubbed all over his front, from as far as it could reach up his chest down to the string keeping his drawers on.

 

“Why does it matter that the tree remembers your name?” Valjean asked with a playful smile.

 

“Code Pénal book the third, title two, chapter one, section five, article number three hundred forty-four states clearly that if the arrest has been executed with a false costume, under a false name, or upon a false order of the public authority, I shall be punished with death.”  He noticed that Valjean’s eyes had lost focus halfway through his answer, and he sighed.

 

“Did my ears work properly just now?” Valjean asked sheepishly.

 

“I said, Code Pénal book the third…”

 

“Javert.” Valjean moved his hand and stopped him midsentence with a soft pinch to his nipple, but then quickly let go of it, “Sorry…” he whispered, “I heard it the first time.”

 

“That is why I only make arrests under the name Javert,” he said, distressed by how easy it was for someone else to stop him from speaking.

 

“Did you only memorize that article because it relates to arrests, or did you memorize them all?”

 

“Cover to cover, and the Code Napoléon before it, and Code Pénal de 1791 before that.”

 

“Why did you memorize it, Javert?”

 

“My mother taught me to read with a spare copy of the Code Pénal de 1791, and once I had learned that cover to cover, it only made sense to learn the new codes too.”

 

“You were born in a prison, but you couldn’t have been raised in the prison too?” Valjean asked, and Javert didn’t understand why he sounded increasingly concerned.

 

“No, but between my mother getting arrested and her visiting my father who was in prison, I spent a lot of time there.  And it was a much nicer place than where we slept otherwise.  Warmer, safer.” 

 

Valjean struggled to lift his head towards Javert’s, and before he could strain himself too much Javert met him halfway.  Valjean placed a gentle kiss on his lips then leaned back.  His eyes were moist.

 

“Don’t pity me.”  Javert said as he pulled away, “My childhood was good.  There was a window to look out of and stars and guards to see.  It was much easier to look at them than to be one of them, and more difficult to be an inspector, and even more difficult to lead them.”

 

“You are doing fine.  There are better things waiting for you.” Valjean whispered, “Come back… I missed you over the past two days, I wanted to touch you… wanted to do things to you which I thought was beneath any man, even if he were only known by a number.”

 

“Sodomy is not a crime, Valjean.” 

 

“Not in the book you read, but it is in mine.”

 

“Any time you want it, this body is still yours,” Javert said, “Just not tonight.”  He saw surprise in Valjean’s eyes, and wondered if he should have made that more clear earlier. 

 

“I wanted to until you quoted the Code Pénal at me,” Valjean said, and the undercurrent of desire broke through in his voice.  His hand pressed harder, moved faster as it roamed over Javert’s chest, and when his reached with the other hand to untie Javert’s drawers, Javert tried to back away. 

 

“Stay, I can reach without straining the wound,” Valjean said as he untied the knot with trembling fingers then wrapped them around Javert’s half hard member.   Javert tensed.

 

“No, Valjean…” He barely got out two words before he had to close his mouth to bite back a moan which threatened to leave his lips when Valjean closed his hand, tight but not painfully so, and drew it from the base up to the tip.  Javert’s blood was rushing down there so quickly that it made him feel lightheaded.

 

“I am Leblanc,” Valjean dropped his voice but failed to sound at all threatening, “Do not forget my name.”  Then he burst into laugher which shook his entire body, including his hand.

 

Javert dropped his head onto the pillow to muffle a groan then summoned every last bit of his willpower to stop himself from moving.  “There is something seriously wrong with you,” he muttered to the ear next to his face, “Please tell me you did not start bleeding.”

 

“It did not,” Valjean said with a chuckle, and Javert trembled as both hands on his body picked up speed. “Before I forget, Javert.  Next time when you quote the Code, don’t give the full citation from book to title to section to chapter.  People stop paying attention by that point and don’t hear the actual article.”

 

Javert opened his mouth to respond but what came out resembled moans more than the intended words.  “Stop… let me… speak.”

 

Even after Valjean stopped completely it took him a few seconds to stop trembling and was able to speak clearly, “The articles are sorted into categories; book the third is on crimes and delicts…” This time he was stopped by a squeeze on his testicles that made all the muscles in his lower body involuntarily contract.  He turned his face away and cursed.

 

“But they don’t need to know that,” Valjean whispered, continuing the conversation as if nothing happened, “Just say ‘article 384, he who arrests a tree without first announcing his name should be sentenced to death.’”

 

“No… no.”  Javert reached down to grab Valjean’s hand and stop it.  “Do not mock the law.”

 

“I’m sorry.” Valjean said apologetically after a moment, his words beginning to slur.

 

“Do not mock the law.  It defines justice so judges could dispense it.  It is how I know that every time I handcuff a man and send him to court, he will receive justice.”

 

“But only God can know the entire truth, and therefore what is true justice.”

 

“Yes, but a man will only face God when he dies, and usually that takes too long.  And when someone commits an especially heinous crime, the judge sends him to God.  Like the men that assaulted you.” Javert said as he moved Valjean’s hands away from his body, then straightened his undershirt.

 

“I disagree but I feel faint,” Valjean whispered as his eyes began to drift closed.

 

“Yes, your pupils are still dilated.” Javert observed after looking at his face.  Javert then moved away from Valjean to collapse onto the bed.  “Go to sleep so you will stop speaking.”

 

“Are you going to leave?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You need to sleep too.”

 

“I couldn’t.”

 

He waited but Valjean didn’t respond.

 

“There are criminals running loose,” he whispered as he straightened the blankets,  “I can’t stay.” 

 

Then Javert lay back down on the bed and stared at the ceiling until his erection subsided before he put his uniform back on.  He smoothed out the wrinkles around the fold lines with his hands, and left without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Javert, sweetie, I hate to break it to you this way but more is seriously wrong with you than it is with Valjean.
> 
> The kiss scene was added by reader request, and it ran away from me until this chapter got this long. I hope it did not become too convoluted. 
> 
> I am taking a short break to deal with a commitment and plan the rest of the chapters. Please stay tuned.
> 
> \------  
> For English translation of Code Penal referenced here, and the Napoleonic Code should you be interested, see:  
> http://www.napoleon-series.org/research/government/c_france.html
> 
> Picture of 18th century French men's shirt:  
> http://www.wmboothdraper.com/Patterns/images/fdl-frstylemanshirt.jpg


	25. Chapter 25

Javert walked the streets.

 

In the dead silence of the night the heels of his boots struck the potholed ground in an unhurried rhythm of his own choosing, a _click click click_ which echoed in the humid air.  A unit of three inspectors is on patrol duty now in a route that snaked through the largest streets, and Javert headed towards the smaller unpaved roads. 

 

He walked past rows of windows barred with wood planks and front doors adorned with multiple locks, some clearly broken.  A few lonely lanterns imposed themselves over this part of town where the law had failed, and they stubbornly kept watch as moths danced around their light.  He wondered how many of the houses were actually inhabited and whether any business aside from the inn remained open in the nights.  The men who attacked Valjean knew how to use numbers to their advantage and likely had a place to hide and store loot.  The police have barely any description to search with, and the only pieces of evidence were the piece of wood which served as the weapon and the stolen jacket.

 

Now at the end of the small path where it intersected the Rue des Ramparts, Javert looked down at the army of moths which had followed the light of his lantern out of the darkness.  They slowly left his side for the other lanterns off the ramparts as he walked in anticipation of meeting the patrol unit.  Based on Luc’s testimony, this patrol unit had failed to respond to an assault even knowing that they were the inspectors closest to the crime scene by far. 

 

Javert placed his palm over the ribbon on this chest through his greatcoat and reminded himself what it meant.  Eminent merit.  Honneur et Patrie.

 

_At the induction ceremony, he filed into the large hall at the Palais de la L_ _égion d’Honneur overlooking the Seine along with a large group of fellow inductees, all cited following the rebellion in June.  Many gendarmes, some members of the fire brigades, a fiacre driver who drove into line of fire at one of the barricades and saved wounded men.  King Louis-Philippe looked what he expected of someone close to sixty, but was clearly excited to be hosting the ceremony – almost white sideburns descend down to his jaws from gray hair with soft curls.  Come to think of it, he had only been king two years.  Javert looked around the room and counted roughly a group of fifty inductees, surrounded by several times that number in the audience.  He wondered whether the king would eventually have handed out so many of these medals that it became a chore to pin one onto another shirt._

_He lingered behind to the end of the single-file line as everyone made their way up to the stage, greeted along the way by various members of higher rank – commanders and grand officers.  And when the king pinned the medal onto the dress uniform Prefet Gisquet had requested for him – his old one had been left at the station and repurposed at his death – it felt like an unsettling, unfamiliar weight over his heart._

 

_When the last inductee had stepped off the stage, the room got silent and everyone stood at attention as the king stepped to the front of the stage to speak._

_“You had been awarded this honor for faithful, flawless service in your chosen line of work, either over twenty years in public service or over twenty-five years in one of the many professions.  Now you will be sworn into the Legion d’Honneur and return to do the same with our motto in mind,” the king announced, and placed his right hand over his heart, onto the red sash draped across his dress uniform, which signified his status as its Grand Master.  “Place your hand over your medal and repeat after me.”_

_“Honneur et patrie,” the King proclaimed.  Honor and fatherland.  Javert joined everyone to repeat the same three words loud and clear, the sound resonating off the walls in the closed hall.  The sharp points of the medal stabbed into his palm.  He never made a promise he did not intend to keep, but he was not sure what he had just promised to defend._

 

-

 

He ran into the patrol unit not long before sunrise.  They had misconstrued his ban against them wondering off the set route during patrol to mean they were also banned from responding to emergencies.  Javert walked the rest of their patrol with them then followed them to the station at the end of their shift, ordered the patrol commander to take Platt’s place at the station, then assigned himself to the night shift.  After everyone exited the station to either begin their patrols or go home Javert sat down on the bench close to the stove at the back of the station with the most recent annual report for the town.

 

He flipped to the economy section of the report and took note of all the listed businesses reported as active in the town.  Most mayors would list simply the number of businesses by category – two fisheries, five clothiers, one barber – but this mayor actually listed them individually.  It made the list look much more impressive than it would have been otherwise, given that there were only the bare minimum number of businesses in the town to make it viable.  Too troubled by a lingering feeling of impotence to go to sleep despite having been awake for over twenty-four hours by this point, Javert went to visit the business at Madeleine’s old factory.

 

“Monsieur, I am chief inspector Javert.”

 

According to the report this factory now was home to a ‘luxury food exporter’.  The man who came to open the door was of stocky build, with tanned face and hands.  He looked at Javert’s face and then down at his collar where the lapel of his uniform peaked out from under his greatcoat before inviting him in the door with an expression of mixed fear and annoyance. 

 

_Several small circular scars on fingers with loose skin folds.  Fisherman.  Entire factory smells like fish.  Unless he produces fish-liver oil which manages to rival the quality of Norwegian imports, this is no ‘luxury food exporter’._

“Chief inspector, I paid your predecessor just last month.  Please check your records…” the man looked at his face more, and Javert wondered whether the man had seen a gypsy police inspector before.

 

“How much did you pay Perrault last month?  Do you have any proof?”  The thought of his predecessor’s name filled him with revulsion, and he could no longer preface mentions of the man’s name with the title of ‘chief inspector’ even though that would be proper.  On this point even the subpar officers in the department agreed – now everyone just referred to him as Perrault, the name pronounced with varying degrees of distaste.

 

The man held out his hands like he didn’t know what to do with them, and said wearily, “Yes, the chief inspector leaves a note every time he stops by, and he brings a note from the mayor every time he stops by for an audit on the mayor’s behalf.”

 

Javert’s heart leapt with the thrill of the end of a chase, and after not having felt it for months the strength of the emotion left him feeling physically weak even as his thoughts were flying.  _It was not two corrupt officials acting alone, but actually collusion by officials to extort._   _Article 174, of extortions committed by public officers: public officers… who shall have been guilty of the crime of extortion, by exacting, or receiving, or ordering the receipt of, what they knew not to be due…   Solitary imprisonment of not less than two years, nor more than five years._ “Bring them, everything you have.  I need to see it,” he ground out, and looked on as the man went into a back room to retrieve the notes.

 

The notes did not have explicit information on what was given as bribe, but it mentioned ‘gifts of sufficient monetary value’, apparently enough to be ‘passing’, and it had the signatures of Perrault and Plourde on them.  An official indictment submitted with these notes from multiple merchants in town and listing all of them as witnesses will be enough to be considered insurmountable proof.  _Incroyabl_ _é._

 

“Please hand these over to the police, Monsieur.”

 

“No, they used to do this, the previous mayor would send an officer to take my receipts then come again to…” the man took a step back and visibly deflated.  “Just tell me how much you want.”

 

“How much did you pay last time?”  Javert seized the opportunity to get this crucial piece of information, but the man froze.  Javert knew he was not going to be able to trust the response as the man would either give a low value hoping to influence him to ask for less, or give a high value hoping for pity.  “Nevermind, just give me the notes,” Javert said impatiently as he mentally counted the number of inspectors he had already banned from duty in the department for suspicions of corruption.

 

“Please, please give me something to show the next person that stops by, Monsieur le inspecteur” the man pled, and Javert was at a loss because he had never had to convince someone to trust him, not in this way.  In his younger days he had followed a superior officer around and he never had to do anything that required others’ trust; during his previous tenures in Montreuil and Paris people had never questioned his motives, even if they hated him and feared him.  He always thought that the uniform on his back was sufficient proof that he was there to carry out the duties of a police inspector to the best of his ability, to the death if need be.  There had been so many bad inspectors in this town for so long that now the uniform is nothing more than a set of shirt and trousers dyed with the same bright blue of the tricolour flag.  The only other thing he had was the Légion d’Honneur ribbon. 

_At the end of the induction ceremony he stood in the crowd bottlenecked at the exit, amongst the group of inductees, a vast majority of them grayed and wrinkled, and many of the younger ones had lost limbs.  Behind them the crowd sang through all the verses of the La Marseillaise over the backing of trumpets and drums.  It was an anthem written generations ago when French armies roamed the continent, a call to arms for the citizens to defend the country against foreign invaders._

_“For whom are these vile chains, these long-prepared irons?” the crowd sang as he held the door open for a one-legged man hobbling with the aide of crutches, and the man looked up at him indignantly, self-consciously._

_“Frenchmen, for us, ah!  What outrage, what fury it must arouse!”_

_Though the man almost certainly was awarded for the action resulting in the loss of his leg, the medal would do nothing to help him walk normally again.  Do any of these men regret what they had done in their twenty years?_

_“It is us they dare plan to return to the old slavery!” sang the crowd in a rousing rendition of the end of the verse._

_“It is not pity,” he said to the man as the man hopped across the doorframe.  More severely wounded veterans crowded behind his back, and instead of going through the door he stepped away from it to let them pass ahead. _He took a step back into the wall until the tip of his dress sword collided with it into an undulating swing.  He_  stood guard next to the door until most of the other inductees had exited, and the crowd had begun singing the omitted verses after finishing all seven verses of La Marseillaise.  He stepped quickly out the door into the blazing sun and a magnificent view of the Seine._

_“God of mercy and justice, see our tyrants, judge our hearts,” the crowd sang as the first of them followed him out the door, and he hurriedly unpinned the entire ribbon from his uniform and clutched it in his fist._

 

The factory owner stared at him expectantly, confused and agitated by his lack of response.  _Extortion is a crime against the commonwealth_ , Javert repeated to himself, _and men who commit the crime can be treated as foreign invaders._   He unbuttoned the top buttons on the front of his greatcoat to reveal the ribbon, and covered it with his right hand.  The factory owner looked shocked. 

 

“Monsieur, légionnaires do not take bribes.  If the mayor comes again, submit any and all written proof of the interaction to me, chief inspector Javert.”

 

“You are… “ The man ducked his head to hide moist eyes, and something fluttered in Javert’s chest. “You are actually going to do something about this?” 

 

Javert drew a deep breath all the way down into the pit of his stomach, and stood sharply at attention.  He had never before managed to make someone cry in gratitude.

 

“I originally wanted to harvest fish livers to make oil, but held back on my plans because they would take all of the extra profits, and it would require initial investments.”  The explanation poured out of the man as if he had been waiting for a long time to make this confession to someone.  “

 

“Fish liver oil is good, you would be able to sell to the town as fuel for all the lanterns.”  _It will at least leave a more pleasant smell on my sleeves than whatever was in that lantern at the docks --_   “Monsieur, I will check back with you in the future.  Good day.”  He took a bow and re-buttoned his greatcoat on his way out the door.

 

Javert walked the streets.

 

This time he headed for home to go to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intend to rush-post at least another chapter this weekend. If characters in this story seem to act out of character from this point forward, please do not hesitate to leave a comment. Other constructive comments also welcome.
> 
> Thank you for reading.
> 
> \----  
> English translation of La Marseillaise taken from its wikipedia page:  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/French_National_Anthem


	26. Chapter 26

Valjean woke to the sound of children playing outside, and opened his eyes only to jerk his head away before he was blinded by sunlight streaming between the curtains.  The other half of the bed sat with the sheets and blankets perfectly made, unused through the night because it was cold to his hand.  He held his side as he sat up to check the time on the watch Javert had placed on the nightstand and took a few bites out of an apple.  He was not yet late for the scheduled time to let the furnace builders into his factory, but with the rate at which he could walk without straining his side, he wouldn’t be unless he left very soon.

 

-

 

The band of furnace builders met him at the front door of his little factory only minutes after he arrived, having walked the entire way at a slow pace while supporting the wound by keeping his hand over it.  As the workers unloaded the bricks and cement, the older man who Valjean set up the appointment with pulled him aside for a quick word, “We must stress to you again, four furnaces is a lot for a factory this small.  You must clear out your chimney every day and clean out the bottoms of the furnaces regularly, otherwise they will be a fire hazard.”

 

“Thank you for the warning, I had worked with furnaces before and know how to maintain them.”

 

“Yes, this town has a fire brigade which only exists in name.  Even if they get there before the fire became contained on its own, they may not act to stop the fire.”  The man clearly still harbored some resentment over a previous event.

 

“Why don’t they?” Valjean asked, but by this time the workers had begun to dig into the floor where the furnaces would go, and it was impossible to continue a conversation comfortably over the loud and harsh sounds echoing in the small space.

 

“You don’t have to stay,” the man shouted into his ear, “we will be here until six.”

 

Valjean nodded.  There was something important he had to deal with, and he might as well take this opportunity.

 

-

 

He wished he had taken a few minutes to wrap an extra layer of bandages over his wound as it pulled occasionally with a sharp sting while he walked down the streets.  He knew exactly what he was looking for.

 

There will always be hungry women and children in this world, especially in a town mismanaged for so long, and Valjean found them in a smaller street near the center of the town.  Then he hired nine women who were standing with children.

 

Melting sand into glass in a furnace then molding them into beads was not easy work; most people would think of it as men’s work.  But a mother’s desire to provide food and shelter for her children will always inspire her to superhuman feats; this was a truth Valjean learned from experience. 

 

“Work in my rosary factory.  Four francs per day, and you get to stay upstairs if you need to.”

 

“Monsieur.”  She held his hand, her small hands dry and cracked from all the time spent in the wind.  “Just before winter.  Where are you from?”

 

“I’ve come from Paris not long ago.  Come with me, all of you, let me show you to the factory.”

 

“Monsieur?  Your name?”

 

“Leblanc.  Ultimé Leblanc.”

 

She paused and gave him and appraising look.  “How interesting!  A common first name and a common surname combined into an odd name that fits so well.”

 

The children crowded around him and tugged on his pants legs, and he let go of the woman’s hand to ruffle the hair of two of them, a boy and a girl.  The girl smiled sweetly at him but the boy reached up with his hands as if he wanted to be picked up.  Valjean obliged, and the little boy wrapped his arms around his neck.

 

“Generations ago my family also lived in Paris.  Did yours?”

 

“No madame, they came from Faverolles in Picardy.”

 

“My great-grandmother struggled to raise her six young children in Paris and eventually had to leave because there was no work.  She often told of how every time her older siblings were close to starvation and their mother had nothing to feed them, she joined the crowd outside the side exit of the Church of Saint-Pulpice where a young librarian, who we now know as Louis de Montfort, handed out days old bread to the poor.”

 

Valjean had turned his head away to hide his wet eyes from her as they walked, but he was moved by her words and he slowed his pace to allow her to catch up to his side.  The mention of Montfort made him think of the rosary in his pocket.  Though it was not lost the night before because it had been in the pocket of his coat and not that of the stolen jacket, he had not prayed in two days.  His wound ached worse now that he could not spare a hand to keep pressure on it, but he gave the young mother a smile to encourage her to continue.

 

“It was a story passed down the generations in my family, an heirloom more valuable than anything else, and maybe every time it was remembered and retold more was added to it and what I tell you now is not much like what actually happened over a hundred years ago.  Monsieur Leblanc, it was a cold day in the late fall much like today, almost but not yet too cold for a mother to take her starving young children to wait out in the open.  The crowd spilled over the sidewalk and onto the street.  Mothers shrieked and children cried as riders and horse-carts collided with those at the back, and eventually the crowd flattened itself against the side of the church, with the tail end wrapping around the corner towards the front entrance.  Then someone saw it, Louis de Montfort unloading bread from a small horse-cart at the front entrance.  News that he had taken all the bread in traveled down the crowd from lips to ears and soon after he appeared to hand out the bread in small chunks.  Those who were first in line were overjoyed that their piece of bread was soft, fresh and still warm.  By the time she was handed a piece of bread she received a tiny piece that was hard and stiff.  This is where my mother would stop the story to ask what we thought, and I had just told my son this story again before you came, Monsieur.”  The woman rubbed the cheek of the muddy child in Valjean’s arms, wiping away some of the crusted muck with her fingers, “Victor, what should your great-great-great grandmother have said to Louis de Montfort, instead of explaining that the piece of bread was too small to feed all her children?”

 

“You give out a piece of bread considered too stiff and stale to eat by its donor, and we receive a bar of gold.”

 

“Why, Victor?”

 

“Because he looked out the window and saw that he didn’t have enough bread to give out, so he bought more with his own money.”

 

“Monsieur Leblanc just offered your mother a job that will buy many loaves of bread.  What do you say to him?”

 

The boy buried his face into the crook of Valjean’s neck.  “Thank you, Monsieur,” he said, and it sounded to Valjean every bit like the voice of his nephew he heard over and over as he looked at the loaves of bread displayed in the store-front window of the bakery that night many years ago, about to be thrown away in a few hours at daybreak when new bread was baked.  Valjean’s tears fell as the other mothers joined in thanking him.

 

“When she asked Louis de Montfort to spare a larger piece of bread, he shook his head and whispered to her, ‘bless you, madame, and your guardian angel.’  He always told others that he had seen his own guardian angel, but I’ve never seen mine.  Perhaps you are it. ”

 

“No, madame.  I am only a man, made with faults and imperfections just like any other.  I needed workers to begin production at my factory, that is all.” He averted his gaze, “God bless you and your child, madame.”

 

He personally showed them to the empty rooms on the second floor of the factory, which he figured would be comfortable from the furnace heat during the winter.  He hoped that by next summer he would have expanded his business, move not only the factory into a larger building but also acquire a warehouse that could house many more workers.

 

The mothers were more than happy to leave their children in the larger bedroom to play with their toys under the watch of the mother of the youngest, a baby she could not part with. 

 

Valjean led the remaining eight mothers to the carriage rental shop on the Rue des Ramparts, and the women squeezed into the largest open-air carriage available.  He drove the carriage towards the docks, made a left at the edge of the river to follow it towards its estuary at Etaplés.  The beech forest on the opposite shore filled the sky with red and gold leaves which drifted down the river in their company, and the ground of muddy sand slowly evolved into marshland about a quarter of an hour out of town.  At a unique and therefore easy to identify zigzagging turn of the river, Valjean had everyone get out of the coach and each wedge three ropes he brought from the factory into the muddy bank, so that the rest of the rope was pulled by the river’s current.

 

“We will grow seaweed on these ropes.  For now we will harvest seaweed out of the ocean at the estuary, where we will also be digging up sand.”  Valjean hustled everyone back into the coach as he continued to explain, “we will need a lot of seaweed to dry and burn into ash, so help me watch for patches of them along the river.”

 

The women enthusiastically pointed out every single shaded part of the river under the shadow cast by a tree particularly close to the bank where the seaweed’s perennial green leaves can be seen floating in and out of the serene river.  As they approached the ocean the sand reappeared and gradually stretched in both directions across the horizon, a warm glistening white under the sun. 

 

Though this landscape was not the one he saw as he drifted to sleep next to Javert each night, he surveyed it with newfound reverence as the women next to him marveled at its beauty.

 

-

 

By the time they arrived back at the factory with bundles of seaweed and buckets of sand, it was late in the afternoon.  Valjean left the mothers to reunite with their children and went to return the carriage, then walked home for a brief stop before he brought food to the factory.

 

He opened the bedroom door to find Javert standing on the other side of it, his hands about to finish buttoning up the top button of his uniform.  Javert raised an eyebrow at him.

 

“I found where all the women and children stayed, and took them to my factory,” he responded to the unvoiced question, every bit as happy and relieved as his voice made him appear to be.

 

Javert’s initial frown turned into an amused chuckle while Valjean was still confused by it.  “The previous man to say those words to me was a child molesting serial rapist,” Javert said before he began to laugh in earnest, and then as suddenly as the mirth appeared it disappeared into a consummately professional monotone, “follow me to the station if you are looking to turn yourself in.”

 

“Now that you mention… it probably did look suspicious for an old man to drive a carriage filled with a group of tearful women out of town, after leaving their children in a factory.”

 

“Though I did not witness the scene with my own eyes, my imagination agrees with your assessment.”

 

Valjean smiled up at Javert, and as Javert brushed past his shoulder to head out the door Valjean made him pause with a few whispered words.

 

“I think… I managed to do a good thing today, Javert.”

 

Javert turned to face him, and they shared a quiet moment, two large men inside a doorframe.

 

“I began to do a good thing this morning, and hope to finish it tonight,” Javert said softly just before he continued out the door.

 

Valjean turned back towards the room to find the bed inside still perfectly made, exactly as it was when he left it not too many hours ago.  “Did--” he began to ask Javert just as the front door closed.

 

-

 

Javert stopped by seven more businesses before everything closed at dusk.  There were more smaller businesses – women who occasionally gave haircuts or mended shirts, men who helped patch crumbling walls in their spare time – and he would not be surprised if they had all been approached for extortion.  But it would take several more days to interview every single one of them, given the limitation that he could only work on this before and after his night shift.

 

He actively restrained himself from drafting the official indictment in his mind while his unit patrolled the docks that night, though it was uneventful aside from their initial sweep to ask the lethargic men who appeared to have been there for no reason to leave for their own safety.  None of the men who stood in groups did anything that night.  When he finally went back to the station at dawn he sat next to the stove with inkstand and paper.

 

In the end he settled with a single sentence.  It was not the best he could do, but he could not deliberate any longer if it were to leave with the rest of the mail at noon.

 

_Plourde, maire of Montreuil-sur-Mer, and Perrault, former chief inspector, found to have acted in collusion to extort business owners in town over their tenure; enclosed testimony from multiple victims._

 

He stuffed the envelope until it bulged with all the receipts and copies of witness’ testimony and addressed it to the prefecture at Arras.  Lastly he included a note sealed in its own envelope expressing his humble preference for a successful businessman by the name of Ultimé Leblanc to be appointed as the next mayor, which he asked the court to include in its report to King Louis-Philippe.  If they believe all the testimony indicating that the extortion was committed in collusion, ‘concert of measures’ as it was called in the Code, the punishment would be deportation.

 

It was improper for a chief inspector to express opinion for a political appointment without being ordered to, and he laid the envelope in his lap after he stamped the seal of the town of Montreuil onto the blood-red glob of molten hot wax with which he sealed it.  To call Valjean a successful businessman at this point was also an exaggeration if not an outright lie.  He leaned closer to the stove behind him until a familiar whiff of acrid smell informed him that he had once again singed his greatcoat.

Some of the officers he had kept off-duty had just reported to the station a few minutes ahead of the hour.  His thoughts drifted to the internal audits that had barely moved forward even when he handled it himself, and all progress he made had seemingly been lost within a day of him being forced to delegate the audits to take the full night shift.  No one confessed anything, no one told on others, and a chasm seemed to be developing between the remaining older staff and the new hires who patrolled the streets.  It was a constant source of frustration but he was too tired to deal with it at the moment.  He had spent over thirty-six hours out of the past two days on his feet.

 

He asked Valjean to come to Montreuil to serve as mayor, not give alms and get robbed.  He walked the envelope to the town’s post house and handed it to the postmaster himself. 

 

“Official business to be rushed to the prefecture, Monsieur.”

 

“It will be delivered there tomorrow, Monsieur le Inspecteur.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Progress slowed since I had to head back into work, and external factors shifted my headcanon to a darker place. Those who are still following this story - I appreciate it if you would please point out any inconsistencies you notice so I can smooth them out. 
> 
> Valjean is supposed to look like a hero this chapter. If you don't feel that way for some reason, please do let me know why.
> 
> \---
> 
> Seaweed farming: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seaweed_farming  
> Louis de Montfort: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louis_de_Montfort


	27. Chapter 27

“State your business here.”

 

Platt frowned when his knees complained as he squatted down.  He stabilized himself with his cudgel against the ground, and held the lantern up to the face of the man who sat on the ground with his back leaning against the wall of one of the warehouses.  It seemed familiar. 

 

Over the past few nights their three men patrol unit, led by the Chief Inspector himself, walked a route that focused on the docks but basically covered the entire town.  This place was a popular location for men out at nights, and so they cleared out any and all bystanders the saw every time they walked through.  It usually was difficult to see faces clearly, but he was certain he had asked this exact man to leave just two days before.

 

“Didn’t we tell you to cease loitering here?” Platt lifted the man’s chin with his cudgel, then turned to gesture the dark silhouette to step over.  It stood out in the open away from the line of buildings, presumably so that its owner could maintain good line of sight.

 

The Chief Inspector cast a huge shadow on the wall against the light of a lantern mounted at the edge of the docks, and it rapidly shrank and sharpened as he approached.  “Inspector Platt.” 

 

“Chief, this man violated a direct order.”

 

At these words the man turned his face away from the lantern.  He shivered and wept silently.

 

“I began to use when laid off, got addicted and was cast out.”

 

“There is nothing for you here.  It is also not safe.”

 

“No where to go. Leave me be…”

“You are cluttering up the docks,” Platt said as he gave the man a jab on the shoulder with his cudgel, “if you are here and not seeking work, you must rob, or steal, or beg for food.”

 

“No!  No, I live off the little bit of savings I still have from before.”

 

“Then you are a vagabond.  Chief, should we arrest him?”

 

Rousset came over to them.  “Chief, we couldn’t fit them all at the station.  The man over there is also one we asked to leave previously.”

 

The tall man didn’t speak, and Platt turned to look up at the face, now illuminated by Rousset’s lantern.  Large flared nostrils, pronounced brow ridge, square jaw mounted on a powerful body.  Would have been the face of a wild animal if not for the scars and lines time etched on it; instead the weariness in his eyes and the aura of calm from his presence accentuate the jaws to remind Platt of a tragic hero of the ancient Greeks.

 

“Chief?”

 

“Platt, you should know that vagrancy is to be punished by imprisonment of from three to six months.  Is that what you think to be just?”

 

The expected punishment was never something he had considered when he made arrests before, and Platt hesitated.  “He is a vagabond, and I should arrest him unless you order otherwise, Chief Inspector.”

 

“This man speaks the truth.  I do not know him well but remember him as a decent man with a job and a family,” Rousset said.

 

“What was his profession?”

 

“I don’t know –“

 

“I worked to drain the marshland, and dry the peat to sell as fuel, Monsieur l’Inspecteur.” 

 

“Winter is near and the town, the mayor, needs you to be working,” Javert said. “You will stop abusing laudanum for three months in prison then come back to an even more angry wife, and more laudanum.”

 

“I don’t understand, Chief Inspector,” Platt said, and quickly stepped out of the way when he heard a gush of fluid.  He saw a dark stain on the front of the man’s trousers grew then a reflection of his lantern in a puddle on the uneven wood grain.  “Oh God.  Urination in public is also a crime.”     

 

When the previous Chief Inspector used to make comments like that to be cruel, but though he had only known Javert for a week, Platt didn’t think he meant the words the same way.

 

Javert continued to address the man as if he didn’t notice what just happened.

 

“You will spend the night at the station and see our doctor tomorrow.  Follow Inspector Platt there voluntarily and we will not use force.”

 

“What?” The man asked, stupefied for a moment before he nodded in agreement, very happy with the outcome.  Platt stood up. 

 

“Rousset, go talk to that other man.  Platt,” Javert said, and Platt turned to face his Chief, “One day you will lead a patrol and will decide a man’s fate by virtue of how you report the crime.  Remember that we serve the town and the mayor through our service to the law.  I see on this man’s face the text of article 64… there can be no crime where the accused has been constrained by a force which he had not the power to resist.  You must make up your own mind before that moment comes, so you will not hesitate while making an arrest.  Take him to the station, inspector.”

 

“Yes, Chief, and are we going to fine him for urinating in public?” Platt asked as he gestured for the man to stand up.

 

“No, just have him wipe it up.  As I said, he was constrained by a force which he had not the power to resist.”

 

“… his bladder?”

 

“No,” Javert said.  “Me.”

 

-

 

Javert stayed alone at the docks while Platt and Rousset took two men with them to the station each trip.  Eight were at the station by the morning when they returned at the end of the shift, and the doctor had just begun to see to them. 

 

The top of the desk in his office was almost completely obscured by stacks and stacks of accounts, testimonies, arrest warrants, maps, schedules…  He picked up his inkwell and a clean piece of paper and moved to the crude bench next to the stove in the main room, which had quickly become his de facto desk.  The jail contained several men and one woman who all need to be taken to Arras, and the officers he trusted all refused to make the trip on their day off.  It can’t wait anymore and he’ll have to send the other men instead.

 

“Chief Inspector.”

 

The doctor interrupted him while he disassembled the pistols and rifle locked in the closet for maintenance and cleaning.  A simple task like this still strained the fingers of his right hand, and he set down the pieces on the bench to gesture for the doctor to speak.

 

“They have all the symptoms of laudanum addicts, but no company sold laudanum potent enough to explain the small ingested amounts the men described.  Chief inspector, I believe we are dealing with opium.”

 

Opium.  It was not manufactured in the country, and Javert recalled seeing bottles of it sitting in a cabinet in the hospital in Paris.  How did it get to this small town?  He began to arrange the pieces of the rifle in order of reassembly even though he could easily spend another hour cleaning it.  There was no time for that now.

 

“The men, when could they be released?” he asked.

 

“My previous patients struggling with laudanum addiction took anywhere from a few days to weeks before I trusted them to be able to fight the addiction by their own will.  It is different for each man.”

 

“Then you need a dedicated room.”

 

“Yes, especially if more men will show up,” the doctor said as he watched.  “Have one of the officers reassemble it – they could use the practice.”

 

Javert nodded.  “Will the addicts become violent?”

 

“The withdrawal symptoms can make men turn violent, yes.  Aggressive treatment requires constant monitoring, and the hospital in town has been understaffed.  Some of them went there before and were turned away.”

 

“The decrepit building next door was reported to be unoccupied, and it will be most convenient for you.  I will go pick the lock and you can bring along one of the inspectors not on patrol duty.

 

“But… why are we doing this, Chief Inspector?  Many inspectors here are tired and stressed.  I can draft a statement of support if you intend to persuade the mayor to help.”

 

Javert rose, a mass of black layered wool and coat.  “Yes, it is the mayor’s duty.  He couldn’t do it -- so we do.” 

 

“What? ”

 

“Do what you can, and report to me.  We are not here to be kind, and if they need to be restrained for their own good, do not hesitate.”

 

It was always difficult to be just.  Javert looked down at his hands.  If he was wrong about these men, if they hurt anyone or committed any crime while in the field hospital, he would need to turn himself in in handcuffs.

 

-

 

It only took five days for an official letter to arrive, delivered to the police station very late in the afternoon and addressed specifically to the attention of chief inspector Javert.  He expected at least four days to be lost in transit, between his original letter getting to Arras, communication between Arras and Paris, and the official response from Arras back here.  Any deliberation on their part could only add days to that time, so how can it be back so soon? 

 

Both the rider and the letter were covered with dust and sand.  The letter was rushed and the contents must be important.  He walked with it back into his small office and opened it with a heavy heart.   The note inside was not brief.

 

 

_Monsieur l’Inspecteur Chef_ _À Montreuil-sur-Mer, Javert:_

_The testimony you submitted regarding illegal activity conducted by Plourde and Perrault have been considered with evidence gathered by this court from previous investigations.  We judge the evidence to be sufficient for Plourde and Perrault to be placed on criminal charges.  The King had delegated the prefecture at Arras with all power for appointments at Montreuil two years ago, but he was present at Arras for business when your letter arrived.  He requested a copy of your service record from Paris, and after browsing through it, agreed with this council’s decision: as you are the only official currently on duty in Montreuil with an illustrious record of service, we will appoint the next maire according to your judgment._

_The included appointment letter should be treated as correspondence from the desk of King Louis-Philippe.  Also enclosed two arrest warrants for Plourde and Perrault._

_Lastly, we pass along the following comments from the King.  Thank you for your service.  Your commanding officers were wrong not to count your early years in Toulon as public service.  You should have been in the L_ _égion d’honneur years ago, and I might have even hung the medal around your collar at your promotion to Commandeur by now.  Do well at Montreuil and I will speed your promotion to Officier._

 

 

He put stacks of papers on top of other stacks to make space on his desk, and emptied the contents of the envelope onto it.  He picked out the arrest warrant for Plourde -- _Monsieur le maire_ – a part of his mind corrected, and he closed his eyes for a moment.  He tucked the appointment letter securely into his chest pocket.  First he must make the arrest, then dispatch a fiacre with an officer to take Plourde to Arras.  After all of that, go appoint Valjean, no, Leblanc, as mayor. 

 

Ultime Leblanc, what a ridiculous name, so obvious that it must be fake.  _It is fake._   Thankfully most of the time his head of white hair was hidden from view by a hat.

 

“Come with me, all of you, before you leave for the day,” he said into the back room next to his office, “We are making an arrest.”  This was the one thing he trusted these men to do better than any other.  To go arrest their partner in crime. 

 

In the main office he ran into Rousset who had just showed up, early as usual, for their normal evening shift.

 

“Chief inspector?” he asked, confused by the commotion.

 

“Come with me, Rousset, and bring your handcuffs.  I want you to see justice.”

 

“Where are we going?”

 

“The mairie.”

 

“Who is at the mairie?” Rousset gasped.  The men who normally sat in the back room were sharing looks.

 

“By order of the King, Rousset!” Javert exclaimed, as Rousset finally caught up enough to see the steely blue eyes.  “When was the last time you stabbed your spoon into a soufflé fresh out of the oven?”

 

“A soufflé?” Rousset lagged behind again and Javert slowed his pace for the conversation to continue.  “Must have been years ago.  Why?  Are we invited by the mayor for dinner?” Rousset asked between heavy breaths.

 

“Parisian cafés serve tiny soufflés, but police inspectors get man-sized ones.”  Javert looked at Rousset.  A young man in his early twenties, hired only a week ago.  “You must not have ever seen one before.  Straighten your uniform, inspector, and take the spoon,” he said, and held out the arrest warrant.  

 

Rousset read the words on the envelope and gasped.  “Oh god.  How does one arrest a mayor?  I don’t know…”

 

“Read the mandat d'arrêt to him, just like any other man.  Justice is blind, She does not know that he is the mayor.”  Javert stopped at the front steps of the mairie. 

 

“He is a soufflé,” Rousset whispered to himself as he followed Javert up the stairs.

 

-

 

“Almost half the department should never be seen again in uniform, but despite some evidence of their wrongdoing I was unable to get a confession or written testimony for a formal dismissal.  They currently spend all their on-duty hours at a room in the back of the station,” Javert explained while semi-consciously tugging on the front of his uniform shirt to straighten it.  He had to squeeze through the small crowd waiting in the lobby bearing gifts and good wishes for the new mayor to get to the office upstairs.

 

“And how many inspectors are actually working?”

 

“Three patrol units of three, two men to staff the front desk.  Eleven counting me.”

 

“You are overworking the good ones while letting the bad ones idle at the station and collect the same salary?”

 

“No, they are only asked to serve overtime, not being overworked.”

 

The mayor’s office was a mess; a chandelier lay in one corner, its strings of jewels tangled in a bunch, vases stood around it.  This is their first of what will become a daily meeting; a morning meeting, only one of the many things he did not do for Valjean the last time that he would do differently this time.

 

Valjean walked around to the front of the desk made of solid walnut wood.  “Does it ever occur to you, Monsieur l’inspecteur, that you are punishing the wrong men?  The good men?”

 

Javert looked at Valjean to make sure he was still referring to the inspectors at the station.  “It is an honor to be asked to serve, and the pay has nothing to do with it.  That is a pittance.”  He made much more nailing together cabinets in Paris than the young inspectors were paid here.  That was a job, paid per cabinet made.  The police was a profession, paid per week of service. 

 

“Yes, you are not paid enough,” Valjean said softly, “Why did you never mention that to me, to Madeleine?”

 

“The police do not complain, Monsieur le maire.”

 

Valjean smiled.

 

“Don’t put the men in positions of authority but it is demoralizing to let the hard working men see others receiving the same pay for no work.  Didn’t the previous mayor raise objections?”

 

“He was unhappy that I instituted active patrols, and seemed to be very familiar with certain inspectors.  I suspect he sent those to take bribes.  Speaking of the bribes,” Javert pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, “this is a detailed list of all the bribe amounts I was able to confirm while collecting evidence against Plourde and Perrault.  The town should pay back all the victims.”

 

“It will be done, Javert,” Valjean said, then his eyes drifted to the mound in the corner as he lamented, “Too bad I can’t pay them back with those.”

 

“Aside from the lack of light after dark, all the ruined uninhabited buildings are also a significant hindrance on the police.  Is there a map of all the inhabited houses?”

 

“No, if it exists then it was not left in this office.”

 

“Some of the houses may not be safe.  I will have my men go door-to-door while on patrol.”  Javert frowned.  He knew exactly what needed to be done, but so many things were urgent and he had so few men that only one could be done at a time.  He felt eyes on him, from the empty and hollow faces of several busts all around the office.  He felt the urge to stare each of them down, but he fixed his eyes on Valjean.

 

“You have all those men who are sitting at the station,” Valjean said, “you should use them.”

 

“They are just as likely to ask for bribes as to ask for the headcount in the residence.”

 

“They only need to guard my employee, while he asks the questions.  Your men will not need to act nor speak unless there is a situation.  Do you trust them to fend off an attack?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“They are all we have, Javert,” Valjean said as he took a step closer. Javert squared his shoulders. 

 

Valjean straightened the flap of his collar. “No, be at ease. I will deal with everything you mentioned today. Go home and sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More than one reader mentioned after the previous chapter that they would like to see more Valvert. I just want to clarify that there will be many Valjean and Javert scenes to come, with an extremely important one next chapter. The information about the town and the glass beads were important to set up Valjean's narrative arc, which the event in next chapter will launch. 
> 
> I have added a BAMF!Javert tag, and I hope that no one who is reading feels it to be unearned. Valjean, however, will still need to earn the BAMF!Valjean tag.
> 
> I spent a lot of hours working on the artwork with hopes of getting it posted with this chapter, but I couldn't. Will try to have it by next chapter.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Portrait of Javert: https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B2-oiRFgQM6IdVdVN0ozMWdscjQ/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> Citations and discussion in the endnotes.

Valjean headed into the house and straight to the bedroom to light his candlesticks.  He was not surprised to find a note next to them on the nightstand, secured in place by the weight of Javert’s medal.

 

 

_Full names of the two men committed to the field hospital last night, which I mentioned at our meeting this morning:_

_Paul-Henri_ _Lefèvre_

_Arnaud Allard_

_No criminal record for either man.  You must have already asked for their names, and if what they told you does not match the names above, have the guards return them to the police immediately._

_Javert_

The note made Valjean smile, but the smile became wistful when he cast a glance at the always impeccably set side of the bed.  Their morning meeting and the notes he left on the nightstand were the only signs he saw of Javert on most days. 

 

He flipped the piece of scrap paper over and penned a note onto other side, then set it underneath one of his candlesticks. 

 

He walked to the kitchen.  It was a long day of meetings at the mairie, and he must be quick with dinner to not detain the women at the factory too long tonight.  The cupboards were all barren; he had finished the bottle of red wine last night.

 

He tore off half of the baguette on the dining table and left.

 

-

 

Docks slowly becoming clear of innocent bystanders, more light.  They can focus on the men in groups, who stood still at dimmer areas of docks but then would disappear into the alleys one by one, difficult to tell whether coordinated until they could see the faces.  It was just in time, because the addicts in groups were becoming more agitated now, and began to exhibit suspicious movements even in their presence.

 

At this rate it will soon no longer be necessary for each of them to hold a lantern to see, which meant they could have cudgel ready and still have a free hand.  For now, Javert led the way with the lantern in his weak right hand – the question of a free hand being almost irrelevant to a man who had learned to make do with one.

 

He walked up in quick strides, inspectors and a few of the ever-present moths in tow, to two men who had begun to shove at each other.  The wind whipped at the capes draped across the shoulders of his greatcoat.  He jabbed his cudgel between the two at chest height and split them apart.

 

“Who is the victim?  Let him speak to Javert!”

 

Both men had sunken eyes, and jolted at his voice to stop their fighting immediately – instead turning all their ire onto him.

 

“You keep them from coming back!” one man spat at him.  Platt brushed past his shoulder and stopped the man from stepping any closer.

 

“You will show respect –“ Platt ordered, but stopped when the other man made a clumsy attempt to run, and promptly tripped over Javert’s out stretched leg to fly face-first into the ground.

 

“Who are they, and what are they coming back for?” Javert asked.  He kept part of his attention on Platt’s movements as Platt wrestled the fallen man’s arms behind his back and cuffed them together.

 

“We buy from them…” the other man responded, before realization of who he was speaking to dawned on him and his face blanked into a guarded expression.  “I don’t remember,” he tried feebly.

 

The man was caught by surprise when Rousset put his hand around the bulging side pocket of his coat.  “A knife, Chief,” Rousset said, and had trouble to handcuff the man even after handing his lantern to Platt.  Restrained man

 

Javert watched the two of them in silence, opening his mouth to give an order only after they have successfully restrained both men.

 

“Inspector Platt, take them both to the station.  Held them for questioning, they may be sellers.”

 

“No, we are not sellers!”

“Inspector!”

The men yelled as they were led away, but Javert and Rousset had already begun walking in the opposite direction, to continue their patrol.

 

Where the lanterns were dense around the entrance to the docks, Valjean had put up new ones until there was one about every eight paces, two new ones for every old one.  The waterfront glowed orange.

 

Ahead of them these new lanterns stop abruptly, but even then Valjean’s work was obvious, because some posts have already been put up where lanterns would go.  A group of men walked towards the warehouses just as they approached.

 

“You must practice using your handcuffs, Rousset,” Javert said to the man he knew was following close behind.  Amongst the gushes of wind the clicks could be heard from moths crashing into the glass panes of his lantern.

 

“Yes, Chief.”

 

“It will be much easier when the mayor gets this place well-lit, but you must still be much quicker.”

 

“I will practice.”

 

As they spoke, they have walked close to the North end of the docks, and the line of barren posts casting menacing long shadows across the width of the wood platform had ended a while back, only to be replaced by the forest of barren trees on the opposite shore.  They looked down the river from the end of the platform, towards the marshland, then Javert dug his heels into a sharp turn.

 

It was time to make another round through the upper town.

 

-

 

Javert had taken fewer than ten steps when he noticed fleeting shadows darting out from the warehouses ahead to his right.  They were three men; they closed quickly and Javert had just become certain all of them were masked when he instinctively knew he was their target.

 

He twisted away from the first man who flew towards him in a tackle, but could not dodge the swing of the stick wielded by the second.  It made a clean connection with his head and sent him crashing onto the platform, his top hat flying into the river.  The world went black for a moment. 

 

He swung his cudgel towards the owner of the hands which restrained his arms, and landed one strike with his cudgel but then it was wrestled out of his hand.  When his eyes re-engaged two looming shadows blocked his view of the night sky.  Next to him the lantern he dropped rocked on its side, the flame chased the leading edge of the leaked oil as it snaked across the wood docks, until the ground was on fire.  Moths circled above the flames.

 

“Va te faire foutre, gypsy, get out of this town!” one of the men yelled, as the other pinned his arms on the ground.  The man crouched over him, grabbed his chin and slammed the back of his head into the wood, hard.  The voice was muffled a bit by the mask but it was one he recognized.  The impact put his mind in a haze and he could not place it.

 

 _Division of labor.  They know what they are doing; these are not simple drug addicts._  

 

The man in front of him spit in his face then stood up and kicks rained down on his body, the only defense he had against the stomping was to turn his body with the kicks as far as he could move. 

 

“Get out of this town, do you hear me?”

 

 _What is this, intimidation?_ “Show your face!”

 

Whenever he rolled too far to his side the other man twisted his arms further behind his back, and if things continued this way it was only a matter of time before he lost any and all ability to fight back.   He stayed flat on his back and stopped dodging the attacks, instead tried to return the kicks.  The man stomped on his body indiscriminately and landed hits on his stomach and groin; he vomited out the bowl of soup he ate just before reporting to the station.  He heard the unique crisp click a pair of handcuffs made when it locked closed, and knew Rousset had managed to fight off the third attacker.

 

The man above him stopped mid-kick to duck a swing of Rousset’s cudgel. 

 

“Show your face!” Javert roared, and kicked the man square in the middle so hard that he lifted off the ground.

 

“Chief, I need your handcuffs!” Rousset jumped on top of the man he just kicked, and pinned the man to the ground with his body.  Javert pushed on the ground with his legs and backed into the man behind him, in an attempt to knock him onto his back.  He backed into nothing – the man saw that both of his companions had been subdued and turned to run.  Javert spun around on his knees and tackled the man onto the ground.  They wrestled, splashing up the lantern oil and sparks jumped around them, lighting their clothing on fire. 

 

All around them the burnt remains of moths fluttered down into the flames.  Their intent was always to navigate by the great ball of fire in the sky that was the sun, but the sun was so far away, and fire so close by, that they were doomed from birth to plunge to a fiery death.

 

They had wrestled each other to the edge of the platform, and the man dove into the river to put out the fire creeping up his pant legs.  Javert grabbed him to reach for the mask on his face, but instead got dragged into the river with him.  The shock of the frigid cold water made the world fade away for a brief moment.  He saw a great winged angel falling in flames, descending into a world of fire.

 

The river was shallow and Javert’s head would be comfortably above water even if he were standing at the deepest part, but neither man could maintain their balance on the slick mud at the bottom and soon both were drowning.  Mud stuck to Javert’s coat and crept underneath it, made it too heavy to move against.  He fought the arms of the other man to try and get his hands on the mask, even as the man was stepping on his body, trying to climb up him to get his head above water.

 

Eventually they both surfaced and Javert screamed, “I am Javert!  Show your face!”  Blood from his cut lip colored his spittle a faint red.

 

“Chief!” He heard Rousset’s and Platt’s voices while water drained from his ears.  “They are --”

 

As the man toppled him over again, Javert was too slow to hold his breath and breathed in a lungful of sea water.

 

_You may kill me, but you must show your face._

 

The man’s movements were panicked now, he let go to reach into his coat pocket, and as he pulled out a knife Javert finally got his hands on the mask and pulled it off.  The man stabbed him in the arm but Javert did not feel the pain because he recognized the face. 

 

Favre, one of the inspectors he suspected of corruption but did not have time to collect evidence for a formal dismissal.  _He had just finished his shift at the station.  He probably still had his uniform on underneath the coat._  

 

_I am damned._

_That was a fallen angel cast from heaven.  That was Lucifer in his descent to hell._

 

The salt water burned his eyes and mixed with his tears.  The river turned red with blood when the man pulled the knife out of his arm, then he saw the silhouette of a cudgel hit the man, and an outstretched hand.  Rousset pulled him out of the river, and Platt pulled them both onto the docks.

 

Rousset laid Javert on the ground and they worked the sleeve of his greatcoat up enough to see the actual wound.  The watered down blood flowed right through both of their handkerchiefs.

 

“I will go get the doctor—“ Platt said as he stood up hurriedly.

 

“And --.” Javert gurgled up salt water as he attempted to speak.  “Recall -- Yvon and Beauregard, for duty.”  He struggled to control his labored breathing.

 

His ears popped as water continued to drain out of them, and he barely caught the response.

 

“Go, with all haste!”  Rousset yelled, as he first removed Javert’s coat then his own, which was not quite all the way soaked through.  Javert saw Rousset press the coat onto his body, but did not feel any warmer.

 

“Drag me into an alley,” Javert said.  He could not feel his own body, had no way to discern what was injured and what was not, but he knew he could die from exposure.  “I will not last long in this wind.”

 

“Hold your arm.  I will…”

 

The sensation of pain spiked in his awareness as Rousset threaded arms under his armpits and pulled him.  He saw his legs leave a trail of mud along the docks next to the glistening trail of watered down blood left by his arm, all the way into the river. 

 

His vision remained distorted; it had previously been masked by the fact that he was trying to see in water.  _Concussion – keep awake until doctor arrives, else…_

 

He remembered their conversation from earlier.  He spit out the rest of the water in his mouth and spoke slowly.  “In your spare time you will find a tree, or anything else of sufficient resemblance to an arm, and you will practice securing and releasing handcuffs around it.  You will practice until you can do it with your eyes closed, until you can do it with a single hand, until you can do it after a criminal had just given you a concussion.  Do you understand?”

 

He felt pressure on the wound, from Rousset trying to stop the bleeding.  “Yes, I will.  Save your breath, keep yourself warm.”

 

“If I stop speaking, monitor my pulse.”

 

It took Rousset too long to understand what he meant.  “Yes.” 

 

Rousset moved around him to find the position where he could block most of the wind.  “Two years ago, Préfet de Police Gisquet restructured the service to form Sergeants-de-Ville, the first nation-wide uniformed police in the world,” Javert began, he tried to follow Rousset with his eyes, but it took too much strength to turn his head.  He looked between and past the two lanterns overhead, but the stars were barely visible through the quick and uneven bursts of mist from his own breathing. 

 

“Go to hell, gypsy, for arresting the mayor!” one of the captured men cursed, and metal rattled against stone as they struggled against the restraints.

 

_I will.  But not for the one you refer to._

 

He blinked and caught glimpses of fire behind his eyelids.  His heart raced and his breathing quickened. 

 

“You are a Sergeant-de-Ville.  You serve the town and its people by fighting crime.  Murder, rape, theft, corruption, have been crimes since the dawn of civilization and will continue to long --” _after we have both turned to dust._   More of the river, uncomfortably warm, rushed up his throat and spurted out of his nose and mouth.  Rousset’s hand torched the numb flesh on his cheek like flaming, piercing swords as it tilted his face towards the ground for the water to drain out.

 

After all the water was gone, the blood dripping down his arm felt hot enough to melt through flesh and bone.  

 

“The world is changing, Rousset.  I served through the rise and fall of Napoleon, the Bourbon monarchy, and the July Revolution.  A king fled the country, an emperor exiled – more than once the National Guard changed allegiances overnight.”  The last traces of the world vanished from his vision, and all that was left was the eerie orange-red glow of fire. 

 

“Never let the world change you,” he whispered at the flames, “If you are unsure, follow the stars.”

 

“Yes, Chief.”

 

“Will you serve, Rousset?” 

 

“But I am already serving, Chief.”

 

_You are still so young and innocent._

 

“Your name is on record for the arrest of Plourde,” Javert said; all sensation in his mouth and jaws were gone and he could only tell whether they formed the words he intended when he heard his own voice, weak and distant.  Memories of that head of white hair filled his consciousness with guilt and resignation.  “When the mayor visits the station, let him know I asked you to be the new chief.”

 

“I am only weeks into the job,” Rousset answered between sobs, “the Préfet will transfer in a new chief like he had always done.”

 

_I tried to return the town that was stolen from you.  It couldn’t be done._

He was aware of a sudden scorching touch on the pulse on his neck. 

 

“Chief?”

 

“Tell him I asked and he will make it happen.”

 

_He would understand this appointment request, but he would never be able to fathom why I wish not to be buried in uniform._

 

“You will not die.  There would be no justice in this world if these corrupt police killed you,” Rousset wept, “You cannot die.”

 

“My life is in God’s hands.”  _And if he already decided to send me to hell, I don’t see why he would spare my life._   

 

“Chief?  Stay awake, the doctor should be here any moment now,” Rousset sounded like he had moved all the way back to the waterfront, yet the painful grip on his wrist only felt firmer. 

 

 _My hearing is beginning to fail._  

 

“This was not what I expected it to be,” Rousset said, “I joined the service only so I could do something good for the town even as I worked to earn a promotion out of it.”

 

“You are wrong.”

 

A long moment of silence.

 

“Yes, Chief?  Keep speaking.”

 

“If you do this job well, you will no longer have reason to leave this town.”

 

“Yes.”  Where Rousset’s voice faded away, he heard the crackling of a great fire. 

 

“Please, keep speaking,” Javert whispered.

 

“A few days back the mayor spoke to all the men on the day shift patrols in person, and explained to them our pension benefits.  I think you should mention that during interviews.”

 

“Why did no one tell me?”

 

“You meet with the mayor every day,” Rousset responded. “We thought --”  The fire sizzled around him, so loud and close that it no longer mattered whether Rousset was still speaking.

 

_You always knew better than me, Valjean.  Even in this.  Care for his wife and child should he fall in the line of duty._

 

The eternal fire rose and swelled until the night yielded to day and the stars will never rise again.  He clung to the unsteady touch on his pulse, and gave in to the fire.

 

-

 

Eight glass beads rolled towards the bottom of Valjean’s gloved palm, settling after he twirled them.  They glistened in the light of the several furnaces, their surfaces perfectly smooth except for the hole through the middle for threading, and an elevated ridge circling all the way around, formed when some of the molten glass flowed into the gap between the two halves of the mold press.

 

“You have all worked hard to grind away the ridge, you only need to grind it smoother before putting the bead back into the fire to polish,” he explained to the crowd of women gathered around him.  He taught the mothers personally and supervised their work during the week before his appointment as mayor.  The two who had the best understanding of the manufacturing process did their best to help the others in the days that he was almost entirely absent from the factory, but he noticed when he sifted through the crates of beads that the quality had become inconsistent.

 

So yesterday night he found them upstairs and asked to arrange a date when all of them could work late.  

 

“Anytime you wish, Monsieur Leblanc,” they responded in an uneven chorus.  Even some of the children joined in.

 

And today at the end of the normal work day instead of leaving only one furnace burning for heat through the night, they started up the fourth furnace until, when he arrived not long ago to start the demonstration, all four were going full blast.

 

Valjean ground one of the beads against the grinding stone, just a few swipes, then showed the bead again.  “Grind it down to this close,” he said as the bead was passed around, “otherwise it will not flatten all the way even if the fire polishing was done perfectly.”

 

When the bead came back to his hand, he put it into the furnace. The women crowded around to watch the bead. 

 

“Pay attention to the color.  When it glows dull orange, like… now,” he removed the bead from the fire quickly, “you only want to melt the surface so it would even itself.  Leave it in a second too long and it will melt entirely, the bead would be lost.”

 

He allowed the bead a moment to cool on the holder before picking it up.  It rolled smoothly on his gloved palm, now a perfect sphere and entirely devoid of blemishes.  A few of the women sighed in appreciation.

 

“Why don’t each of you take a bead with an obvious ridge and try to fix it now.”

 

Valjean walked around the room, broken glass occasionally crunched underneath his boots, as two women worked at each furnace.  Sweat dripped down the sides of his face and he felt his undershirt cling to his body.  All the women in the room worked with rolled up sleeves, yet both of his and his collar were still buttoned – necessary to hide all the telling scars on his skin.

 

He was showing the beads on his personal rosary to one of the women when a cascade of frantic knocks on the door interrupted them.

 

“Monsieur le maire!  Is he here?”

 

One of the women at the furnace closest to the door opened it to reveal a young inspector whose face Valjean did not recognize.  Valjean saw the glow of the fire reflected by unshed tears on the bottom lids of the young inspector’s eyes, and he suddenly knew that this man was one of the two with Javert on the night shift.

 

“He wasn’t at the mairie or his residence –“ the inspector said to the woman, until she stepped aside to yield to Valjean, who had run up.

 

“I am Leblanc, inspector.  What is the matter?” Valjean saw the blood all over his hands, smeared onto his coat, and finally his gaze fell onto the pistol whose handle dangled out of the pocket.

 

“Inspector Platt, Monsieur le maire!” the man quickly introduced himself, then confirmed Valjean’s greatest fear, “Our Chief – chief inspector Javert was gravely injured --”

 

The rosary slipped out of Valjean’s fingers and clattered onto the floor.  A split second later his mind registered that Platt was still speaking.

 

“I sent for the doctor, and recalled two inspectors…”

 

“Where is he?” Valjean spoke over Platt, who stopped mid-sentence and looked back, confused.

 

“Who?”

 

“Javert!  Where is Javert?”

 

“He was at the docks, but if the doctor didn’t already get to him, he is…” Platt’s voice broke as the tears spilled from his eyes, “he is probably already dead.”

 

Valjean set his jaw.  “Give me your rifle,” he ordered as he reached for the weapon, then jumped in a disgraceful mount onto the young man’s horse.

 

“Monsieur le maire?” Platt called, but Valjean ignored him and started the horse on a gallop towards the docks.

 

“He would not want you to go yourself!” Platt yelled, and then his voice was buried by the rapid thuds of the horse’s hooves as they struck the dirt road. 

 

Valjean drove the horse hard; he could only see the blood on the hands not the road in front of him.  The cold wind buffeted his shirt and cut clean through him where his shirt was damp.  He had made the right turn onto the Rue Pierre Ledent less than a minute ago when he saw a fiacre hurtling towards him, moving faster than he thought a fiacre to be capable.

 

“Javert?  Doctor?”  By the time he stopped his horse to turn it around the fiacre had already raced past.

 

“Doctor!” he shouted again, and the recognizable face of the doctor peered out from the window in the door. 

 

“Monsieur le maire?” the doctor said a moment later when Valjean closed on the fiacre and he recognized the face, but he did not gesture the driver to slow.  “Go, fill the stove at the station with coal, please!”

 

“Yes, the stove –“ Valjean only caught a brief glimpse inside the fiacre through the window as he passed.  He saw mud.  Then he actually thought about the doctor’s request.  “Is he cold?”

 

“Yes, hurry!”

 

“Take him to my factory, left on Rue de la Licorne, number 49, furnaces are already on.”  He gestured to the next turn ahead, and looked back over his shoulder just as the doctor agreed.

 

“I will meet you there,” Valjean responded in a calm voice, even as the image of a mud-covered body haunted his mind.

 

He passed Platt, who was walking on foot, then dismounted at the factory.  He left this door only minutes ago yet it felt as if an eternity had elapsed since.  He barged through the door; it bounced off the opposite wall and crashed into his shoulder, just as a blast of the suffocating heat hit his face as a solid mass.  The women shrieked, he heard glass shatter –

 

“Mesdames -- I need to use a bedroom, loan me a bedroom for one night.” he scanned them with his eyes, “which room is empty right now?“

 

“They are all empty, it is sweltering up there,” one woman responded.

 

“Where are the children?” Valjean could not resist asking the question, as he turned back to meet the fiacre.

 

“We sent them to go read at the police station for a few hours.”

 

He could not comprehend the response, and would have pressed for more explanation if he did not already hear the sound of hooves and wheels closing fast. 

 

Horses neighed as the fiacre screeched to an abrupt stop at the door.  

 

The doctor slid Javert off the bench seat head first, carrying him under his armpits. 

 

Valjean stepped up behind, the frame of his body dragging some of the heat out with it.  With a soft but firm, “Pardón, let me,” draped the limp body of the large man over his shoulder with the ease of someone shrugging on a coat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Painting: Everyone probably came into here with their own version of each character, and I am not at all trying to impose the face I see on you. This is simply to show the man I am writing about. A personification of the Napoleonic Code, his face chiseled, gray-blue eyes which someone with a clear conscience (like Valjean) could look into and see a clear sky where others see cold steel. Whiskers that dwarf the other features of his face when he normally has the top hat pulled low. 
> 
> I am curious to know how much this portrait fits what you've been visualizing as you read.
> 
> \--
> 
> History of French police, Javert is wearing the 1830 uniform:  
> http://www.sfhp.fr/index.php?post/2011/09/16/Les-uniformes-de-police-de-si%C3%A8cle-en-si%C3%A8cle
> 
> Picture of uniforms at Museum of Paris Prefecture:  
> http://www.agf8.fr/uploaded/photo/2012-02-17-18-sergent-de-ville-1-jpg.jpg
> 
> Fire-polishing is still used in glass bead production today (I purchased some to reference for painting):  
> http://www.beadaholique.com/c-63015-czech-fire-polish-beads.aspx


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Groucha, who authored the only story I am aware of in this fandom which explores Javert's relationship with a doctor.

“Dear god.”  He heard the doctor whisper in awe behind him as he willed his limping legs the few steps to the base of the stairs.  With one hand he pinned Javert’s left arm and left leg, draped over his shoulders, into his chest.  The rest of Javert hung limp on his back, and the frigid wet mud seeped down his collar and soaked through his already damp shirt.  It was too cold for a man to be for long, and still live.

 

“It is warm enough here,” the doctor said, a sense of relief overflowing in the voice, “you have saved his life.”

 

Valjean knew the doctor from his work with the drug addicts and trusted his judgment, yet the words did not alleviate his fear.  He limped up the short flight of stairs step-by-step, pushing against the plaster wall with his free hand to ease the pain shooting up his legs from his chain-damaged ankles.  In his younger days, he could have carried this man up this staircase with barely a pause in his step, but now it was quite possibly the most strenuous climb of his life.  Drops of sweat dripped from his forehead and stung his eyes until tears wetted their corners.  The heat in the house rose to the second floor; every step he took the air felt warmer, but every one of those steps was another where Javert’s body remained completely still and lifeless. 

 

The doctor noticed his progress slow down and helped share the burden by lifting Javert’s right side off his back.  The old wooden staircase groaned and creaked under the weight of three large men squeezed within two of its steps, and Valjean flexed his arm, ready to hold on to Javert even if they were to fall through the floor.

 

Valjean set Javert onto the bed in the closest bedroom.  It was only then that he took a good look at Javert.  His upper body was wrapped in a mud-stained white sheet, and his pants, despite being already partially sliced open, were drenched and stuck to his skin.  It was covered with muddy boot prints.

 

“Who did this to him?” he asked, but the doctor was too busy peeling off the pants to respond.  He helped with the opposite side.  The fresh bruises he saw forming underneath made him nauseous. 

 

“Dry him with the bed sheets,” the doctor said, then added after a pause, “if you need to attend to other things, Monsieur le maire, you may.  You have already been a huge help.”

 

Valjean shook his head, his hands pulling at the bed sheets to free them from under the blanket, which was conveniently piled out of the way in one corner, “I wish to stay,” he said.  After he got the bed sheet around Javert’s body, he began rubbing the skin both to dry it and to warm it.  Soon after he began to do this, Javert showed a reaction; he winced and subconsciously drew away from Valjean’s hand.  His heart sank.  The last time this happened, several of Javert’s ribs were broken.

 

“Did you have time to check what is broken?” he asked the doctor.

 

The doctor rubbed the fingers of Javert’s right hand, holding onto them even though Javert kept trying to pull away.  “Only a cursory check, but miraculously nothing seemed broken.  He paused to adjust the piece of bloodstained cloth tied around Javert’s right arm, then continued, “Warm his extremities, frostbite is a concern.  If anything on his front were broken I would not have allowed you to carry him over your shoulder.”

 

Valjean tried to ignore the increasingly pained expression on Javert’s mud-covered face, or the mud-caked hair and whiskers surrounding it.  He warmed the hands and feet as requested, until they were no longer freezing to his touch.  Only then did he try again to calm Javert.

 

The mud, dried in the heat of the room, slid right off Javert’s face in a few solid pieces when Valjean wiped at it with the bed sheet.  Beads of sweat formed on the forehead and above the upper lip immediately after he wiped them clean.

 

“I am Leblanc,” he said, his hand resting against the side of Javert’s face to prevent him from turning away, “this is the second floor of the factory.”

 

Javert’s eyes shifted under the closed lids, and his lips began to move in time with the uneven exhales.  Valjean could not make out the words.

 

The doctor turned Javert’s head to face Valjean.  “Hold his head still.  He was hit on the back of his head and I need to check it,” he said.  “He will feel more of the pain as he regains sensation, it could not be helped.”

 

Valjean watched the lips.  The same words seemed to be repeated over and over, but all he could discern was one that resembled ‘no’.  

 

“Javert,” he tried again, “I am Leblanc.”  He was careful to keep Javert’s head stationary as he lowered his own so until his ear was right next to the lips.

 

“… mistake, was a mistake,” the voice trembled but the words were clear now, “… this man should not be in hell.”

 

“You are safe, you will live,” Valjean turned to speak into Javert’s ear, “You are not in hell.”  He whispered words of gratitude to God that the words of comfort came easily to him.  Yet the lips kept moving, and when it became clear the same words would not help he listened again. 

 

“… judge him anew.  Correct our mistakes… he became a good man.”  Though Javert spoke haltingly, the voice still barely more than a soft whisper, Valjean was able to decipher each individual word.  But he could not understand who Javert was referring to.

 

“I am Leblanc,” Valjean said again.  He wondered whether Javert would respond to his real name, but the doctor’s presence meant that name could not be uttered. 

 

He watched Javert’s face for a reaction, until he read the words “send him to heaven” from the lips.  In that moment he understood who the ‘he’ was.

 

“No.”  Valjean shook his head and spoke in a firm voice, “Open your eyes, see that this is the factory you asked me to open.  This is not hell.”

 

A knowing glance from the doctor made him pause, fearful that he had said too much.  However, even these thoughts of his were transparent.

 

“Do not mind me.  I work for both of you, saw him rush to save you, and you to save him.”  Valjean did not hurry to deny whatever was implied, even though he knew Javert would have if he were conscious.

 

“You have been through worse than this -- wake up,” he saw no other option than to keep speaking.  Now that Javert’s body had warmed up, Valjean loosened the bed sheet wrapped securely around his body and used a clean spot to wipe mud from the long salt-and-pepper hair.  The dried mud clung to the individual strands, and would likely only come off with an actual wash.

 

The doctor was in the middle of looking over the other head wound – this one on Javert’s temple, when they heard the sound of knocks on the front door carried right up the stairs by the rising hot air.  Then there were voices of children.

 

“Thank you, Inspector Rousset,” said a woman’s voice.

 

“Madame Allard, there had been an emergency at the station,” the inspector said, and Valjean remembered one of the names from the note Javert left.  Arnaud Allard.  A common surname, but Madame Allard was a similar age, raising a child alone.  It made sense now why they went to Javert. 

 

“We feared for the safety of our children when we heard what happened to the chief inspector.”

 

“Rousset,” the doctor said, but his voice was drowned out by the roar of the furnaces downstairs because the conversation continued.

 

“You heard?” Rousset asked.

 

“Inspector Platt came for the mayor, who left then very quickly came back carrying a body.  Were many inspectors injured?”

 

Silence. 

 

“Upstairs,” the doctor said, louder, but still too busy cleaning the cut to take his eyes away and turn towards the door. 

 

Rousset asked, his voice breaking, “Where is the body?”

 

“Come upstairs,” Valjean yelled, “he is alive!”  Javert flinched at his voice, and Valjean once again was at a loss to calm him.

 

“This is not hell,” he said.  They heard hurried footsteps ascend staircase as a woman asked, “that body was the chief inspector?”

 

Rousset appeared at doorway, now crying tears of relief.  He stood a few steps from the foot of the bed, hat in his hands in front of him, and began to speak without causing any further commotion, “Doctor, he will live?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“When will he wake?”

 

“I don’t expect him to become fully conscious for a few hours more, but he seems to be drifting in and out of consciousness now.”

 

“Then if you don’t mind, I will report to him, Rousset said. 

 

“Come closer,” Valjean told the young man, “maybe you can calm him.” 

 

“Monsieur?”  Rousset asked.  They had not met.

 

“Come,” Valjean waved him closer, until Rousset sat on the bed.

 

“Chief, I am Rousset.  Dupont and Marion have been arrested and brought to the station for testimony and charges.  Platt left the two men he was escorting to the station before the incident handcuffed together on Rue des Ramparts with the handcuffs looped around a lamppost.  Someone was sent to retrieve them.”  Valjean waited with him for Javert to make a response, but he was still slowly mouthing the same words over and over.

 

Rousset stood up.  “They are the last of the inspectors who were here before you, aside from Platt.  After you recover we can hire far better men to replace them.”

 

Valjean was stunned by the new knowledge that the assailants were members of the department.  For the briefest of moments he closed his eyes and let his head drop.  Nothing in this town had been the way it should have been, and he became personally involved with all aspects of it: the hospital, the schools, the fire brigade, the merchants, the fishermen, the homeless, even the church.  The police was the one responsibility he was happy to delegate completely, to a man possibly more qualified than any other in the entire arrondissement, maybe even the entire country.  He was fully aware of the presence of officers under suspicion in the department, but did not push Javert to place them on high priority.  He did not even press for details.  Men could not decide to assault someone like Javert on impulse, so there must have been signs or clues that could have been found should he have looked.  He was complicit in the crime by virtue of his negligence.

 

When he opened his eyes Rousset had already turned to depart, and he had almost walked out the door before Valjean found his voice.  “Inspector Rousset, you must be the other inspector serving on the night shift.”

 

Rousset turned back in mild surprise, and Valjean saw his eyes drift to his white beard and hair. “Monsieur?  Leblanc?”

 

“Yes, Leblanc.”

 

“Monsieur le maire,” Rousset said with reverence, “Chief spoke of you sometimes.”

 

“Your coat looks wet, inspector.  Are you also soaked underneath?”

 

“No,” Rousset said softly, “it is mostly only my coat.”

 

“What do you need to do next?”

 

“We need to search the bottom of the river for dropped evidence, and find the third assailant most likely dead in the river.  Yvon and Beauregard are working to clear everyone out of the docks now.” 

 

“Do you have a spare coat to change into?”

 

“No, Monsieur le maire.”

 

“Go home and put more layers on underneath your uniform,” Valjean said.  During moments of silence the wind could be heard as it buffeted the wall of the house, and it could not have gotten less cold since he came into the house.  “Then go back to the docks.  I will meet you there later.”

 

“You?  You intend to go yourself?”

 

“Yes, after he is stabilized,” Valjean gestured at Javert.

 

“Monsieur le maire, come oversee us if you wish, but what we desperately need right now are simply more men, more pairs of hands.”

 

“I understand.  Go.” 

 

-

 

Javert writhed as the doctor’s fingers pushed into each bruise to feel for fractures in the bones.  He was flushed and sweating; the bed sheet underneath his body had become damp.  Valjean did his best to restrain Javert as the doctor worked, while he tried to think of men to send in Rousset’s aid.

 

“There are no sedatives you can give him?” he asked the doctor.

 

“By prior agreement no narcotics unless with his verbal consent.”

 

“Wait, what?” Valjean looked up to the doctor’s face, but could only see the top of his balding head.

 

“He insisted that if he took laudanum for every injury he suffered, he would have become addicted long ago.” 

 

“You were not withholding sedatives because of the head wounds?” Valjean was incredulous, “He is delirious, he thinks he is burning in hell, and you would not gave him any sedatives until we can wake him up?”

 

“Monsieur le maire.”  The doctor sounded so calm that Valjean felt his temper flare, “If you knew him well, you would know that he would probably refuse anyway.”

 

He knew the doctor was right.  “How much did you try to talk him out of this?” he asked, instead of arguing.

 

“Until I was red in the face.” 

 

It was immediately clear from the way the doctor gave the terse response that he was less pleased by this arrangement than he first appeared to be.  Valjean was silent.  He had learned over time to accept Javert’s peculiarities, but somehow he had an ability to pass those traits to people around him, even if they were otherwise reasonable people, like this doctor.  “I cannot understand this, doctor,” he said finally.

 

“Soon after I was hired, he asked me to meet with each officer.  He even shifted schedules when it was necessary to make the in-person meeting possible.  I did not understand why, and this is what he said to me…” The doctor’s hands had moved down from the shoulders and the chest fluidly, but now felt slowly around the bruise on the ribs on Javert’s right side.

 

“Those ribs were recently broken,” Valjean said softly, “the second through the fifth.”

 

The doctor nodded in acknowledgement, and continued his explanation.  “He said to me: a pre-established understanding of what the doctor will do and will not do is a comfort when there may be no other.”  He finished his inspection of the ribs in silence, then concluded, “They have fractured again.” 

 

“But this is still completely unreasonable,” Valjean said.

 

“Perhaps you can talk him out of it.”  The doctor moved to check the ribs on the left, “Monsieur le maire, if you could forgive me for being honest –“

 

“Yes, Doctor de Belleyme, you may.”

 

“When I got to him he was completely unresponsive; all I knew were Platt’s and Rousset’s descriptions of a brutal beating.  I did not think I could get him warm quick enough for him to live.  The possibility that the great chief inspector would die in my care terrified me, and during those moments that previous conversation was a comfort.  Even though I did not understand why he thought that was best, I could tell myself that I knew what to do for him.” 

 

Valjean reached for Javert’s hand.  The palm was moist with sweat.  “If you can leave a bottle of laudanum,” he said to the doctor, “I will talk him into taking it.”

 

The doctor took his eyes away from Javert’s injury for a moment to give Valjean an appraising, knowing smile, “You may be the only person who can.  In fact, many little things make sense now.”

 

“What are you implying?”

 

“It always bothered me that the chief, a man so strict with himself, treated the drug addicts so leniently.  It could not have been true empathy.  And then the men at the station, and many of my friends, wondered how a new comer to town got appointed mayor,” the doctor paused, and Valjean’s heart raced.  “Forgive me if I am wrong, but did the two of you have an agreement about making you mayor?”

 

“Yes,” Valjean admitted.  He had feared that people would notice what was happening between him and Javert, and imagined the circumstances under which it would happen.  The reality was much less dramatic than everything he came up with, but the fear was still there.  “But doctor,” he added quickly, “do not for one moment suspect Javert of corruption.”

 

The doctor laughed, raw and spontaneous, and Valjean knew they were safe. 

 

The doctor composed himself and moved his hand to check Javert’s body temperature.  “We should move him to room at a more comfortable temperature for the night.  Perhaps in an hour I will move him to his home.  When you leave for the docks can you send someone to get his house key from the station and go start a fire there?”

 

Valjean took a moment to decide which of the doctor’s faulty assumptions to correct.  He felt too mentally tired to attempt to hide in the eyes of someone who had clearly seen too much not to be at least partially aware of the truth, and in the end he chose complete honesty.  “I am leaving now; there may be men I could send to the docks.  The chief inspector and I stay at number 46 Rue Maurice Delannoy.  If you find his copy of the house key still in his coat, keep it so you could enter while he is bedridden and I may be away.  Otherwise I will give you a duplicate copy of mine.”

 

“Yes, Monsieur le maire.”

 

“I will send one of my workers to go start the fire with my key and come back immediately with it for you, in case I cannot be back in an hour,” Valjean said, “pray show discretion, doctor, and do not use the house key for any other purpose.”

 

“I enjoy working for both of you, Monsieur le maire.  Rest assured that I would not cause harm.”

 

-

 

Fire.

 

A hand breached the wall of fire, the back of it covered by blonde hair that glowed bright white against the flames.  The fire raged and soared all around him, but if he had to come up with a description of temperature, he would conclude that he was cold.

 

_No, not you._

The fingers latched onto the front of his uniform coat, strong grip on both layers of wool where the front panels overlap.  Lifted his upper body above the fire without any effort.

 

_Leave me._

He closed both of his hands around the hand and tried to pry it off, but no matter how hard he tried it did not loosen its hold. 

 

_If the law could sometimes be wrong and God would not correct our mistakes in his final judgment --_

 

A second hand appeared and closed around his.  It was warm, the skin rough, fingertips calloused.  He felt a dry heat in his fingers, in his hand.

 

_I cannot bear to do this one moment longer._

 

The unmistakable presence which shielded him from the worst of the fire disappeared, and he felt cold again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Street names in this story come from real ones in Montreuil according to google maps. To check for yourself, go to maps.google.com and type in the longitude and latitude of the Citadelle, (50.467, 1.76).
> 
> Brief note about where the rest of this story is going: denouement is going to be CH33, with the broader climax spanning CH32-CH35. It is basically all Valvert from here on out. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	30. Chapter 30

When Javert woke, it was because the alternating sensations of intense heat and intense cold became too real, too immediate, and his need to know what it was compelled him to open his eyes.

 

To Valjean.

 

His face was lit by an orange glow, but he was not on fire.  And for reasons which Javert could not begin to comprehend, this calmed him.

 

“Javert?” the white beard and green eyes hovered close, and Javert’s gaze drifted down, from the eyes to the beard, to the shoulder then down the arm.  Valjean was leaning on a bed, and Javert understood that he was lying on that bed himself.

 

“Listen to me, Javert,” Valjean said, the voice calm and steady, yet another piece of evidence that at least for the moment, they were no longer in hell, “The night commander stationed at the Citadelle had agreed to put this town in a state of heightened security.  The National Guard have closed the docks as of about three hours ago, and it will remain closed until sunrise tomorrow.”

 

Javert watched Valjean’s lips as he spoke, all the time trying to keep his eyes from falling shut again.  He was certain his mind was not working at anything resembling its normal capacity, but… there was only a tiny National Guard outfit stationed at the Citadelle before.  The number could only have dwindled further with the town’s demise.  Nevertheless, the most important thing first.  “Sunrise tomorrow?” he asked, and it took far too much effort because his mouth felt as if it was stuffed full of cotton.

 

“Yes,” Valjean responded with a gentle smile, “it is almost four now.  You have been unconscious for seven hours.  Not when the sun rises in three hours but the next day.”

 

“The police are there?” he was determined to finish asking all his questions one at a time, but when Valjean cradled his head to feed him water he gladly stopped to take a drink.

 

“Inspectors Rousset and Platt are there.  I asked Inspectors Beauregard and Yvon to return home so they can be ready for their normal shifts in the morning.  If they find anything they will report to you.”

 

“And the arrests were made?”

 

“Every single one of the men who had been arrested had also been taken to the jail in the station.” Valjean deliberately made his normally measured and mellow voice even more so, and Javert was certain that the voice alone could put him back to sleep.  And as if he could read Javert’s thoughts, Valjean whispered, “Sleep.  Your body needs to heal.”

 

Javert continued his struggle to keep his eyes open, either if they were only tiny slits.  “Will the National Guard take control of the police?”

 

“No, they will not.”  The response was quick and sure; so was the question that followed.  “Give me an answer to this question, Javert,” Valjean asked, “are you in too much discomfort to sleep?”

 

Javert looked away from Valjean’s face, and Valjean waited in silence for the response he already knew.

 

“Yes.  I felt… temperature changes.”

 

“And a bit of pain?”

 

“Yes.”  The pain was constant and could be gotten used to, in a way the hot and cold could not.

 

“What you felt were the cold compresses to the worst of your injuries to reduce swelling.  I must continue them.” 

 

Images of the bottoms of boots flashed through Javert’s vision.  He did not need to be able to feel his own body to know there must be a lot of swelling.  “Yes, they must have helped.  I will try to sleep through it.”

 

After a brief moment of silence, Valjean asked, his voice considerate, “Will you agree to take a dose of laudanum?”

 

“No,” Javert’s answer was terse and he wondered how he failed to anticipate this question. 

 

“You force-fed me a half dose of laudanum, and now I give you a half-dose.“  Without waiting to hear the response, Valjean retrieved a tiny metal cup from his pocket and pressed the fingernail of his thumb against the line the doctor etched on the outside wall to denote the level for one dose.  He slowly poured the reddish-brown liquid into the cup, meticulously checking its level against his thumb with every little tilt of the bottle.  

 

Javert counted the seconds.  He wished that he had the instinct to start the count immediately when Valjean began, but even then he had passed thirty by the time Valjean completed his measure of that small sip of liquid with the infinite patience in the most minute of tasks which Javert had only ever seen in farmers.  That type of patience could only be honed over years of sprinkling tiny seeds onto acres of fields and watching plants grow.

 

Valjean set the cup down on the nightstand, close to Javert.  “Drink this.”

 

“You did not measure the dosage with half that care when you spit out what I forced into your mouth,” Javert observed.

 

“Next time,” Valjean said with a smile, “I will spit it out one drop at a time.”  When Javert did not respond, he continued, “You will not fall into addiction from a few occasional doses.” he said, “have faith.”

 

“How do you know, only the doctor… oh.”  Javert eyed the metal cup held to his lips wearily.  Valjean had both the right and the strength to force any medicine into him. He swallowed the extremely bitter liquid in a single gulp, then drank most of the cup of water Valjean offered to him before the taste disappeared from his mouth.  Already weak and tired, the half dose worked surprisingly quickly.  “Go tell the National Guard they do not supersede the police…”

 

“I already made that clear to them,” Valjean’s voice rose clearly above the sound of water dripping. 

 

Javert’s eyes had drifted closed by this point, but a sudden cold sensation on his hip made him flinch.  He swore under his breath.

 

“Try to sleep through this, on that half dose,” Valjean said apologetically.

 

“The National Guard…” he tried again.  He heard a sigh as hands moved, and he felt a different cold cloth on his ribs.  He flinched again.  At least his hip had already gone numb to the cold.

 

“Trust me, I know how to communicate with them.  I served in the National Guard for years.”

 

Javert was succumbing to the drowsiness, and the shock of this revelation was not enough help him stay awake.  “You served?” he barely managed to voice his disbelief.

 

“Yes.  I owned three houses, the draft was unavoidable.”

 

 _What did you do when the government was in turmoil, and you received conflicting orders_ , Javert wanted to ask.  _You always knew what was right.  What did you do when you thought the orders were wrong?_

 

As sensation returned to his hip he felt a painful heat.  His wished that he were not drugged so he could have the conversation with Valjean.

 

“Remember that you are not in hell,” Valjean was saying.

 

Javert could believe that they were not in hell, despite the fire.  He could even believe that they could both end up in heaven, but that was only possible if he could find a way to continue doing his duty.

 

He tried to imagine Valjean in a National Guard uniform, and found that it took no effort at all to conjure up that image.  That was what he wore when they met at the barricades.

 

“I do not fear God’s judgment,” Valjean told him, “and you should not either.”

 

_When other men in his unit were in formation outside preparing to rush in, this man wore his National Guard uniform into the barricades and rescued traitors.  That was likely as clear a failure to do ones duty as was possible.  Was that wrong?_

_He also rescued me.  He was indiscriminate in who he saved._

 

He gasped when a cold wet towel was pressed against his temple; a few drops of the cold water ran down the side of his face.  Warm fingers brushed the stray drops away.

 

_Was that right?_

 

“As long as you want me here, it does not matter…”

 

-

 

Many times Javert drifted into partial consciousness to the jarring sensation of cold.

 

During those moments he heard drops of water fall into a basin.  The cold then subsided into numbness, and he fell into sleep again. 

 

Eventually he became used to its predictability; eventually the cold pulled him less and less into awareness.  The cold came with such regularity and constancy he could use them to measure the flow of time.

 

_Valjean._

He felt a head of wispy hair rest gently on his chest.  A hand laid over his heart.

“… give us this day our daily bread; and forgive our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us…”

 

_Bread thief._

 

He felt a kiss on the corner of his lip.

 

“… watch over me while I take my rest and deliver me from danger. May Thy grace be always with me…”

 

_Bread thief._

 

…

 

-

 

Javert woke to the sound of fire in his ears, opened his eyes to an orange glow in front of him, on the ceiling.  He let his gaze drift.  It was hard to see much without moving, but his sore midsection made him tense in pain when he tried to sit up.  Valjean’s candlesticks and his medal sat on the nightstand next to him.

 

“… town … treasury…”

 

A man’s voice could be heard through the closed bedroom door.

 

A small section of the sky was visible between the drawn curtains, and it appeared an orange-magenta.  It signified either the start of the day or the start of the night; he had to open the curtains to know which.  His thoughts were slow; too much time elapsed between each one.

 

His arms were wrapped against his torso by the thick blanket, all the edges tucked underneath his body.  He tried to shift his weight and lift his back off the bed to loosen the blanket, and when that did not work he pushed off his left elbow to roll onto his side.  Onto his right arm, and the dull ache turned instantaneously into full-blown pain.

 

And within a split second he remembered everything that he saw.  The stab, the knife.  Favre’s face behind his blood and the river water, the fire, the fallen angel. 

 

Next came what he could not see.  The stars he knew to be above the line of lanterns, above the raging fire.

 

He untangled the blankets from his body and immediately felt cold as the air flowed into the loose undershirt covering his damp upper body.  As the blanket fell from his hips a corner of it dipped into a basin of water on the floor next to the bed.  Many folded towels lay draped around the rim of the basin, and many more piled on its bottom.

 

He pulled the blanket back onto the bed and made his way to the window, just in time to see the sun begin its descent behind the cross atop the steeple of the small church.  Soon it would be dark, and the panes of glass would once again reflect the fire burning in the fireplace behind him. 

 

He pulled the curtains closed.

 

As the primary victim of the assault he must pen a detailed testimony for the department.  As the commanding officer of the assailants he must submit a report both to the mayor and to the police headquarters in Paris.  After that, there were still the drug addicts waiting at the docks for opium, night after night. 

 

The two of them kept their stationary in the living room, and he shuffled slowly towards the bedroom door on his sore and stiff legs.  He heard the sounds from the living room more clearly as he approached the door.  Valjean was in a conversation with a second man, about the fire brigade.

 

The wood floor creaked under his stocking-clad feet.

 

“Pardon, I need one moment—“ he heard through the door, then a faint “yes, Monsieur.”

 

He was straining to turn the doorknob when the door opened away from him, and he fell forward until strong arms steadied him.  Where the hands touched, he felt a burning pain.

 

“God help me,” Valjean breathed, “Get back to the bed, Javert.”

 

“I need pen and ink.  And paper,” Javert said.  When he regained his footing he straightened himself and looked at Valjean; with their faces this close he could see not only the dark bags under Valjean’s eyes but also the countless dark lines of shadows where the skin around them curved and bent into deep folds. 

 

“What possibly –“ Valjean looked away from Javert’s face to the ground, his voice changing into a tone of dejection, “what for?”

 

“Victim’s testimony.”

 

“I will bring it to you, get back to the bed,” Valjean said, and began to walk him back to the bed without bothering to wait for his response.

 

“Don’t coddle me,” Javert said to him, even though he made no attempt to resist, “I already slept far too long.”

 

“I am in the middle of a meeting, but will have a few minutes to speak after.”

 

As Javert was about to sit down on edge of the bed, he saw an older man’s face through the open door.

 

“Monsieur le maire, forgive my intrusion.”

 

“Sorry for the wait, I will…”

 

“Monsieur, I can come back at a later time,” the older man hurried to say, apologetically, “I cannot adequately answer the questions you pose at the moment, Monsieur le maire.”

 

“Yes, and I need time to decide for myself.  Please reschedule the meeting for tomorrow or the day after, with my valet at the mairie.”

 

“Yes, Monsieur le maire.”  The older man looked to Javert.  “You must be the chief inspector.  My condolences to you on your injuries, but as the mayor had taken you into his home I am sure you will be well cared for.”  Javert frowned as he followed the retreating shape of the man’s back with his eyes, until the man disappeared behind the wall.

 

“I have lost all credibility in this town,” he said.

 

“No.”  Valjean lowered himself until he squatted in front of Javert, “the townspeople had dealt with the corrupt police for long before we came, and they could piece together who was at fault and who was not.”

 

Valjean folded up Javert’s sleeve to check the bandages under the small fresh bloodstain in the ensuing long silence. 

 

“Let me get the stationary,” Javert said.

 

“If you can wait, maybe forty-five minutes until I finish my meeting with Claude and Luc, you can dictate the letter to me.”

 

“I know better than to give you a detailed account of the assault.”

 

“I have seen the injuries, seen the blood at the crime scene, and heard descriptions from Inspectors Rousset and Platt.  Your account would not shock me.”

 

“They only saw parts of it, mostly the milder parts.”  Javert made eye contact with Valjean, “No, your presence would be counter-productive.  Go to your meeting… are Claude and Luc the fishermen who saved you?”

 

“Leave the sealed testimony on the nightstand and I will take it to the station personally.  Then go back to sleep.”

 

“No.  I need to go to the station for paper with the official letterhead to write a report to the headquarters.”

 

“I will bring you the paper,” Valjean said, “no, actually, I will draft it for you.”

 

“You cannot.”

 

“This is a major incident in the town’s police force, and my name needs to be on the report also.  I will draft it, and leave it for you to edit before dispatch.”

 

“You have no information –“

 

“No more words.  You are being unbelievably stubborn.”

 

Valjean walked back out to the living room to retrieve the pen, inkwell, and paper, and there were knocks on the front door.

 

“One moment, messieurs,” Valjean called out, then set everything down on the nightstand after moving the candlesticks, the medal, and the unread note he penned previously off to the side to make space.  “Yes, Claude and Luc the fishermen.  They were unable to fish today due to the closing of the docks.” 

 

He left and closed the bedroom door behind him.

 

-

 

“Come in,” Javert said towards the closed door.  He had identified Rousset from his exchanged greetings with Valjean moments before.

 

“We found the knife close to where you were attacked; most of the blood had been washed away but some might still be on the blade where it fell onto the mud at the bottom.  The body had drifted more than half a kilometer downstream by the time we found it.  We had to borrow a boat and paddle it down the river to carry it back.”

 

“They are at the station?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I am still writing my testimony, but after I submit it to the department, you will take the lead on the case.”

 

“Yes, Chief.  We also found other things in the river.”

 

“I assume you mean that wood crate?” Javert gestured towards the seaweed-covered wood chest Rousset had placed on the ground.

 

Rousset handed it to him.  Parts of the wood had snapped off, and Javert saw immediately that the piece of wood Valjean was stabbed with came from one such chest.

 

“How many did you find?”

 

“This one was lodged against a small rock formation close to the body.  No more; maybe a few more could be found further downstream towards Etaplés, but most must have washed into the English Channel.”

 

“It was empty?”

 

“No.  Chief, there were some odd leaves and many pieces of wax paper, which had English words on them,” Rousset pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and smoothed out its wrinkles with his fingers before handing it to Javert.

 

The words ‘East India Company’ were written across it in large font, and it gave off a noticeable smell despite having been fished out of the river.  Javert held it up to his nose and breathed in.  The smell reminded him of flowers.

 

“Raw opium wrappers,” Javert said.  He had received a letter just yesterday from Gisquet in response to his inquiries about opium imports.  It contained pages upon pages of details regarding everything from known trade routes, packaging of shipments, how the opium poppies were grown, how raw opium was cooked into liquid, and a list of suppliers.  He had not finished reading everything, but he read far enough to recognize the name ‘East India Company’.

 

“It was likely stolen British shipment from India,” Javert said. “You came with the crate, so it must have been by fiacre?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Help me to the docks, Rousset; I need to see with my own eyes what was in the river and where it was.”

 

“Platt just headed over there.  We are still digging things up.”  Rousset frowned.  “There is no way you are fit to leave the room so soon.”

 

“I slept a long time.  It will be fine.”

 

Rousset put an arm around his waist as he draped one of his arms around Rousset’s shoulders, and they exited the bedroom slowly.  The conversation outside had stopped.  Valjean watched the two of them as they moved across the living room.  He had anticipated this when Rousset came through the door.

 

“Your coat is next to the door.  It had been washed, the best that could be managed,” Valjean said without making eye contact.  “Come back as soon as you can, Javert.”

 

“I will help him back, Monsieur le maire,” Rousset responded while Javert slowly put on the greatcoat, now a charcoal gray with specks of white.  “And Chief, we found your hat.  I forgot it in the fiacre; it is still a bit damp.”

 

-

 

Valjean finished his meeting not long after Javert had left.  He knew Javert would not be back for at least a couple of hours, given how much information they must need to report to him. 

 

Since leaving the factory with the doctor, carrying Javert between them, he had not been back to check in for over a full day. 

 

He donned his coat and exited the house.  If Javert were still not back when he returned, he would go to the docks.

 

-

 

Valjean walked towards the north end of the docks along the line of warehouses.  Between the two armed National Guardsmen stationed at the entrance and the crime scene, there was not one living soul at the docks.  A dense line of lanterns lighted the river to an orange-red as far as the eye could see.

 

He saw Javert in silhouette, seated on some object in the middle of the wooden platform.  The man sat still as a statue while the corners of the capes on his coat fluttered over his shoulders in the wind.  His top hat and greatcoat were both salt-stained from the original rich, dark black into a charcoal gray, and they glistened in the moonlight.  In contrast the young inspectors were a bustle of activity; they knelt off the edge of the platform with wood poles and fishing nets, and frequently walked up to Javert with something to report or show.  Yet Javert did not keep his attention entirely on them, for his head was clearly tilted up.

 

Valjean wondered whether Javert ever read the note he left under the candlestick – probably not – to let him know that a shipment of lanterns were due today.  He had sent men to finish lighting the docks today while it was closed, and the lack of passersby actually made progress much quicker. 

 

Out near the waterfront, Javert had stopped looking up.  Valjean debated with himself whether to walk out there and order Javert to go back, but then remembered Javert’s concern with loss of credibility and decided against it. 

 

He turned and walked back the way he came.

 

-

 

 _Justice comes for us all, in Her own time_ , Javert thought to himself.

 

_In Her own time._

 

The stars were still there at their posts even if they were too dim to outshine the line of fire above his head.

 

“Chief, you asked to see the evidence and you have.” Rousset said, “unless there is something else you wish to see, you should go back.”

 

He wondered whether Rousset -- or any of the others – understood how little they were authorized to do to international smugglers.

 

“Chief?”  Rousset laid his hand on Javert’s shoulder.  “Are you falling asleep?”

 

“No.”  He did not expect to ever have that question directed at him, while on duty.  This world made less sense to him by the day.  “No, I am finished here.”

 

“Then I will go tell the others and accompany you back.”

 

“Rousset.  How much harm did Dupont and Marion do to this town before I came?”

 

“How much harm?”

 

“Did they personally take bribes?  Did they threaten, intimidate, or assault others like they did to me?”

 

“But you already ask this during the internal audits, Chief.  We don’t know.”

 

“There is no evidence, Rousset, so I am asking for you to make a guess.”

 

“The police as a whole caused more harm than the good they did, so…” Rousset had taken his eyes away from Javert as he searched his memory of the police.  When he looked back up, Javert had already walked a few steps away.  “Chief?!”

 

“Chief!  Where are you going?!”

 

It took effort, every single second, simply to remain standing on his shaking legs.  Javert stared down Rousset and Platt, who blocked his way.  “Platt, keep searching the river,” he ordered.  “Rousset, come with me to the station.”

 

“No, you should go back –“

 

“For the moment, I am still the chief inspector.  You will come with me.”

 

_In Her own time._

 

There was tension in the frigid air, and though he could not see the two National Guardsmen standing at the entrance to the docks because it was too far away, he was certain that they would notice if Platt decided to raise his voice and argue.  Rousset and Platt traded uneasy looks, and then Platt stepped away.

 

“Chief, explain to me what you need, and I can probably do it for you,” Rousset said, but Javert stepped around him and boarded the fiacre.  Rousset hurriedly followed.

 

“Back to the station,” Javert said to the driver.  Then he did not speak another word during the trip, despite Rousset’s frequent, and increasingly alarmed, inquiries.

 

In Toulon, convicts who violated rules not explicitly specified in the Code were bound to posts to receive lashes with a tarred rope.  The Code was written to be exhaustive, but not everything could be written down, and prison guards had the authority to administer lashings. 

 

The police did not.

 

Javert walked straight to the back of the station and pulled out a bucket of the red wax used to seal official correspondence.  He left it on the ground next to the stove and then searched the cabinets. 

 

For a long piece of rope.

 

“What are you looking for, chief inspector?” Chambriollet, the young man who staffed the front desk during the night shift, had no understanding of the situation and kept on offering to help.

 

Rousset blocked Javert’s arms.  “Chief, you must stop.”

 

“Stand down,” Javert snarled.  All of the cabinets of rope were empty.  “How can there be no rope in the station?  What will we do if we needed to secure a horse, or a man –“ 

 

Rousset stepped in front of Javert and physically blocked him from the cabinets.  “Chambriollet, go get the mayor immediately,” he said.

 

“No!  You do not give orders --”

 

“The chief is still recovering from multiple head injuries,” Rousset said, and dared Javert to refute this fact.  Javert did not.  “Inform the mayor he is needed to help the chief inspector home.”

 

Chambriollet ran out the door while the depths of Javert’s consciousness prevented him from uttering a lie.  Javert knew he only had minutes.

 

“Find me a rope.”  

 

“We took them all to the docks.  We tied ourselves to trees on the shore while we waded up the river in search of the crates.”

 

There were no ropes.  Javert tried to think of the next closest thing, and nothing came to mind.  He was exhausted.

 

“What were you doing?  Please tell me.”

 

“Dupont and Marion are going to be sentenced to five years imprisonment for their assault on me.  Is that justice?”

 

 _It is not,_ he answered himself, _but She will come in Her own time._

 

Rousset walked him away from the cabinet and sat him down on the bench next to the stove.  “That is the prescribed sentence,” he said.  Their breaths were racing, and they sat in silence.  Rousset turned his head to look towards the closed door with a barred window, which led to the jail cells.  He did not say anything more.

 

Javert fixed his eyes on his wrists, which lay in his lap.  The bandages around his right arm peeked out from under the sleeve of his discolored coat.  His arm was slowly recovering from the ugly break months ago, but whatever tiny chance he had of ever regaining full use of that arm might have been taken away by this injury. 

 

“Why did you need a rope, Chief?”

 

Javert did not respond, and when Valjean barreled through the double doors he followed Valjean back without a word of complaint.  There was nothing to be done.

 

-

 

“I refuse to discuss work issues with you right now,” Valjean was blunt with his displeasure when Javert mentioned the crates found in the river.  “What were you doing?!”

 

They lay in the bed, Javert on his back because that was the only position that did not put undue pressure on his injuries, and Valjean on his side facing Javert, with his head propped up on one arm.

 

Javert had no idea what Chambriollet said to Valjean, but those details mattered little.  “Their assault on me was only the last in a long history of crimes they had committed, and the only one we could prosecute them for,” he said.  He saw the text of the Pénal Code as clearly as if a huge copy of it was projected on the ceiling, lit by the fireplace to an orange glow just like the rest of the off-white walls in their Spartan bedroom.  None of Dupont, Marion, or Favre began the ambush with a lethal weapon, which would have certainly killed him on the spot.  They had no intent to kill, and the two who were alive pinned as much of the responsibility on the dead man as possible given their circumstances.  It was a premeditated assault, committed by night.  “Five years imprisonment and a fine of five hundred francs,” he read, and flipped the imaginary pages to the section on robberies.  “A lesser sentence than the five years hard labor for time you received for your crime of theft committed at night, with a break-in.”  He did not know the circumstances surrounding Valjean’s theft of that loaf of bread decades ago.  It was probably the only case of crime he did not want to learn every detail about.  Valjean never changed his story through his nineteen years in the Bagne.  He always insisted that his sister’s child was starving, and he broke into a bakery through the window to steal one loaf of bread. 

 

He knew enough to see that the sentence Valjean received was too harsh, just as he knew enough to see that the sentence Dupont and Marion will receive will be far too lenient.  In both cases the law prescribed what could only be described as a pale imitation of justice.

 

Javert wept.  “I am sorry,” he said.  “I am sorry.”

 

“You almost died.  There is no way the sentence could be only…” Valjean’s voice broke off and it was a long pause before he could utter the last word in a hushed whisper, “… that.”  He still could not think of the five year sentence as anything less than the nineteen it became.  Nineteen years in the Bagne, and a lifetime in fear of his identity being discovered.

 

“If the injuries kept me from work for over twenty days it would have become hard labor for life.”

 

“But you should not have returned to work!  The wound on your right arm alone can justify a week of leave, and this…” Valjean placed a hand on Javert’s ribs without even taking his eyes away from Javert’s face to look, and pressed just hard enough to make his point.  The sharp pain made Javert’s breath catch in his throat.  “The law only sees the worst of men, not the best of men.  It says the assailants are responsible for the fact that you are alive and back to work, but that is not, not in the slightest, the truth. Platt and Rousset helped fight off the assailants, the doctor rushed to your side while he was off-duty, and the combat training you practiced so studiously also undoubtedly helped.  I count at least four acts of heroism to save your life.”

 

Javert shook his head.  “For the love of God, count yourself,” he said, as he turned his head towards Valjean.  Teardrops which were drying halfway down his cheeks fell the rest of the way onto the bed sheets.

 

“Many people were told before me.  All I did was take you into my factory, hardly an act of heroism.”

 

“You did not get much sleep last night, and you will not tonight,” Javert said.  “I should not keep you up any longer.  Wake me for our morning meeting, I will report then.”

 

“You cannot be serious.”

 

“It is important that you are informed of what is happening at the docks before they are open to the public again.”

 

“I already gave your meeting time to the town treasurer.  I did not expect us to have any reason for the formal meeting.”

 

“The town treasurer, the man you were meeting with earlier?”

 

“Yes.  We are working to make the volunteer fire brigade professional, but we could not decide on their salaries.  My factory is a fire hazard and the fire brigade needs more training, but their part-time status makes it impossible.”  Valjean reached across Javert and tucked the far edge of the woolen blanket under Javert’s body.  Javert shifted uncomfortably.

 

“You will not agree to take more laudanum, will you?” Valjean asked rhetorically.  “I will work at the mairie tomorrow but come back early, so we could speak before you leave.”  He knew Javert was going to work tomorrow night, as soon as the docks re-open.  This was not at all what Valjean anticipated when he asked for the two night and one day closure. 

 

His attempts to shelter and protect Cosette had almost robbed her of the love of her life, Marius.  He tried desperately not to make the same mistake with Javert by being supportive and allowing him autonomy, but if Javert still appeared mentally unstable tomorrow evening, he would have to start a bitter argument to prevent Javert from returning to duty.

 

“I will wait for you,” Javert said.

 

“Get some rest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant articles in the Code Penal, 1832 version: http://www.napoleon-series.org/research/government/france/penalcode/c_penalcode3b.html
> 
> I bolded the most critical parts to help comprehension.
> 
> For Dupont and Marion, (Groucha, the unofficial beta for this story, exchanged over twenty emails with me and we disagree on whether the corrupt cops should get 5 years imprisonment, 5 years hard labor for time, or 10 years hard labor for time.)
> 
> 311\. When the wounds or blows shall not have occasioned any sickness, or inability to work (for more than twenty days), ... If there has been premeditation, or **lying in wait** , the imprisonment shall be from two to five years, and the fine from 50 to 500 francs.
> 
> 198\. In cases where the law does not settle, specially, the penalties incurred for crimes or delicts **committed by public officers** ,... shall be punished as follows;  
> In case of a delict of correctional police, they shall always undergo **the maximum of the penalty pronounced against that kind of delict** ;  
> ("that kind of"?)  
> * **To hard labour for time** , if the crime would require, against any other guilty person, the penalty of **solitary imprisonment** ; (question here is whether imprisonment is the same as solitary imprisonment.)
> 
> For Valjean,
> 
> 381\. The penalty of death shall be inflicted upon the individuals guilty of theft, committed with the aggravation of all the five circumstances following:
> 
> 1st. If the theft has been **committed by night** ;
> 
> 2d. If the theft has been committed by two or more persons;
> 
> 3d. If the criminals, or any of them, were in possession of arms, apparent or concealed;
> 
> 4th. If they have committed the crime;
> 
> Either by means of extend **house-breaking** (effraction exterieure), or of scaling, or of false keys, in a house, apartment, chamber, or lodgings, inhabited or used for habitation, or their appurtenances;
> 
> Or by assuming the title of a public functionary, or civil or military officer, or dressed in the uniform or costume of such functionary, or officer, or by alleging a false order of the civil or military authority.
> 
> 5th. If they have committed the crime with violence, or threats of making use of their arms.
> 
> 382\. The penalty of perpetual hard labour shall be inflicted upon every individual guilty of theft, committed by means of violence, and, moreover, with **any two of the first four** circumstances enumerated in the preceding article.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, this chapter is almost 50% rewritten. It is funnier and makes more sense than the attempt before, with a lot of sexual innuendo added. Please give it a second chance and let me know whether it is improved from before.
> 
> My immeasurable gratitude to Ravenna44 and Groucha, both of whom talked me into jettisoning a lot of my planned themes to tighten the story. My planned CH32 will be split in two, so the previously advertised climax will happen in CH34 instead of CH33...

Javert held his uniform in his hands.

 

He had woken up not long ago, his stomach growling and his body weak with hunger.  He made his way to the kitchen and found a piece of bread and a small wedge of cheese, both of which he washed down with several glasses of water.  While eating he noticed his uniform coat and pants hanging on the clothes rack at the front door, next to his greatcoat. They were not there the night before.

Since he earned his first blue uniform decades ago in Toulon, he had been through many of them -- one front panel, back panel, sleeve, collar – at a time.  When a fall on the ground tore a hole in the elbow, he got the sleeve replaced. When a criminal stabbed him in his side, he got the front panel replaced.  When the top edge of the collar frayed from where it constantly rubbed against his whiskers, he got the entire collar replaced.  Lost buttons and loose threads were replaced so often that he did not even keep count.

 

And when he finally earned the promotion to inspector first class, he declined the offer of a new uniform and instead got the red piping added to his old one.  Over time, every single part of the uniform had been replaced at least once, yet he liked to think of it as the same one.

 

No one ever understood why he so insisted on mending the same uniform.  But someone did this time, because the left front panel and right sleeve of the coat had an intensity of color which did not survive past the first few washings, and the rest of the coat had a pasty sheen, much like what happened with his greatcoat and top hat.  The silk ribbon looked good as new, now pinned onto the new panel.  The mud probably wiped easily off of it.  He looked at the uniform pants.  It fared even worse than the uniform coat; only one out of its four panels survived.

 

He was running his thumb along the sweat-stained inner lining of the collar when Valjean entered.  The words stitched into the collar had faded over time and now was barely visible against the surrounding fabric, but he could feel each individual word under this thumb, and did not need to see them to remember what they said.

 

Valjean joined him at the table, on the opposite side. “My workers offered to mend and wash your uniform and greatcoat,” he said.  “They were able to get all the mud off, but a lot of the color got dulled in the process and some salt stains were too far lodged inside the wool to come off. The parts that were bloodstained or cut when we removed it from your body were replaced entirely.”

 

“I can tell.”

 

“Is this good enough?  They will gladly work more on it for you.”

 

“Who guessed that I wanted the old uniform mended?”

 

“It was not a guess.  I was told this by one of your men when we served here the first time.”

 

The corners of Javert’s mouth lifted almost imperceptibly into a wistful smile.  He had hoped to have finally found understanding, and what he received was probably the next best thing.  Intimate knowledge acquired over decades.

 

“Fluctuat nec mergitur,” Javert said, his thumb still on the collar.  “Are these words also inscribed on the collar of the National Guard uniform?”

 

Valjean recalled many affluent businessmen who occupied the officier ranks of the National Guard, their most important -- and possibly only – qualification being that they were available to serve full-time because they did not need to work.  The entire design of the city’s coat-of-arms came from the merchant’s guild, to which all those men belonged.  It was natural that they would want the motto prominently displayed on the uniform. “Yes, the motto of Paris, of course,” he responded.  “And the vessel on the coat-of-arms is on the outside of our collars – wasn’t it also on your collar?”

 

“I had them changed to the Fleur-de-lis on the Montreuil coat-of-arms before we came.”  Javert turned the coat collar in his hand to check the pair of embroidered Fleur-de-lis on the front of each side.  They were far too pristine to have been cleaned of mud.  The whitest things will always also be the easiest to stain.

 

Valjean was an avid reader and he had barely spent a few days in Paris before natural curiosity led him to read all about the history behind this Latin phrase, proudly displayed on the sculpted outer walls of many buildings especially the stately government buildings along the banks of the Seine. “She is tossed by the waves, but does not sink,” he said. The phrase was meant to describe the merchant vessels which had navigated the punishing and often fatal rapids of the Seine continuously for centuries.  The fortunes of Paris had been tied to that of its merchant’s guild since inception; if the fleet of vessels ever succumbed to the waves, the city falls with it. Valjean studied the man across the table. The inspector sat with his unfailingly erect posture, but he appeared pale and wearied, and the patches of hair at his temples appeared to contain more white than before. Valjean reminded himself that this man had survived both a suicide attempt at the Seine and an assassination attempt at the Canche, and a pang of compassion infused with pride tore through his chest.  If this man, this paragon of duty and virtue ever fell, the town would fall with him. He must be kept safe. Javert had not spoken this entire time as the deep emotions ravaged his mind, but Valjean knew that he had been paying attention.  He had no words to describe his thoughts, so he simply said, “This motto fits you.”

 

Across the table, Javert appeared surprised but did not offer any words in response. They fell into a silence which was neither awkward nor comfortable.  Valjean watched Javert’s face and tried to decipher his expression. This entire day he feared that he would come home to find Javert even more agitated and mentally unstable than the night before.  He stayed awake until he was certain Javert had finally fallen asleep because he stopped shifting, afraid that Javert would fail to sleep and leave again. Now Javert seemed more calm than Valjean had ever seen him, and oddly introspective.  Subdued. 

 

Resigned.  

 

All of a sudden Javert laid his uniform flat on the table, pushed his chair back, and stood up in an exact and practiced motion. It could have deceived Valjean into forgetting about the extensive injuries if they were not constantly at the forefront of his consciousness.  “Monsieur le maire,” Javert said, “I must explain the smuggling case.  Forgive me for not being dressed.”

 

“Smuggling case?” This was a complete surprise to Valjean.  It made sense to him now why Javert had so insisted on making the report earlier.  

 

“We found irrefutable evidence for a stolen shipment of raw opium belonging to the British importer ‘East India Company’. The shipments originated in the British colony of East India and have historically been destined for Chine, but had been transported to, and stored at, several large seaports in England since the emperor in Chine banned them.  Crates have been reported stolen from the stockpile at Hastings, a town directly across the English Channel from Etaplés.  The reported time of theft is consistent with the smugglers last being in Montreuil merely days before our arrival.  We will arrest them at their next appearance.”

 

“Why would people do this, smuggle in an addictive medicine to sell to people who have no need for it, when many people who actually need it could not afford it?”

 

“There is currently so much excess supply in the English ports that they are not worth much to the locals, and it is far safer for the smugglers to take the stolen goods across the Channel than to try and move it within England.”

 

Valjean waited for Javert to continue the report, but he had stopped speaking as if that was all that needed to be said. This was exactly the type of professional exchange they used to have the first time they served together in this town. Javert would explain all the information he decided was appropriate to give to the mayor for any given situation, but not volunteer a single word more unless pressed for answers. Productive conversations would end abruptly in mutual frustration because an invisible stone wall came down between them.  Valjean thought they were past this since he had become mayor this second time, and it was not a problem until now.

 

“What is wrong, Javert?” he asked, heartbroken. And he could see clearly that Javert was taken aback by the question.  That meant either nothing at all was wrong, or too many things were.

 

“You don’t have to work alone this time, do you understand?  Explain everything to me, as if I am a second chief inspector in the service.”

 

Javert took a moment to consider the proposed hypothetical. 

 

“You are the mayor.  That is why I am detailing to you the international scope of the situation.  I have sixty-seven pages of information about opium from Préfet Gisquet, and it is sitting on the nightstand right now.  I have finished my first read through of it and can leave it here tonight for you to read if you want to know everything.”

 

“No, Javert.  That is not the information I want.”  Valjean was at a loss for words to explain what he wanted to know. Javert responded to his request professionally, but what he wanted to know was personal. He wanted to know that Javert would not be exposing himself to unreasonable danger, given his current state. “How many of them are there? When will they come back?”

 

“A lot of the addicts in this town owe the smugglers money.  I suspect hundreds of francs.  The British ambassador recently sent word to the prefecture at Paris of another case of theft. We are the only police department so far to have found evidence of the stolen goods.  They will show up, if not this week then definitely within this month.  They were reported to be a small group of three or four according to some of the men in the field hospital.” 

 

Despite the baffling international origin of the smuggled goods, the practical details sounded surprisingly reasonable to Valjean.

 

“This means you only need to station some men permanently at the docks and watch for them?”

 

“I will lead a unit to be stationed each night at the docks.  All the transactions we know of happened at night, and they are unlikely to risk being seen with smuggled goods in broad daylight.”

 

“No.”  Valjean’s refusal was unequivocal and spoken with the full authority of the mayor. “Full night shifts at the docks is unreasonable so soon after your injury.”  The end of October was near, and the nights will soon become bitterly cold.  The tall ramparts around the town shielded it both from invaders and the biting frosty winds that raided the open plains.  It would test the endurance of any man to stand a full shift at the docks through a winter night, where they would be exposed completely to the elements.

 

“Monsieur le maire,” Javert responded with a dip of his head, his body language communicating nothing except absolute obedience. But Valjean finally knew the man well enough to suspect that he was unhappy with the order. 

 

“Delegate this case to another inspector while you recuperate,” he said to Javert’s still lowered face. With a sense of guilt he offered a concession, “Take a shift personally if you wish, but I want all shifts at the docks to be limited to four hours.”  Four hours was already far longer than he would normally allow for anyone at Javert’s current condition, and Valjean prayed that Javert would recognize this for the conciliatory offer that it was intended to be.

 

“Monsieur le maire,” Javert said again. He offered nothing more for Valjean to judge his internal thoughts, other than the look of defeat and resignation written plainly across his face.  Valjean’s neck ached from the effort it took to keep his head inclined at the necessary steep angle to keep his eyes on Javert’s face, so he stood up. He would walk closer to Javert if the table between them did not inhibit him from doing so.

 

“You may ask questions,” he told Javert. “We can discuss this.” He waited patiently for Javert to give voice to his thoughts, which he did using a tone both plaintive and terse after a very long silence.

 

“To stand guard, to keep watch, to be present so I can lend my experience to the other inspectors, these are about the only duties I can still perform competently with my current injuries.  Why are you not allowing me to perform them?”

 

It was never an inhuman insensitivity to pain which set Javert apart.  While everyone else were preoccupied with the incapacitating list of everything his injuries prevented him from doing, Javert dwelled instead on the things which he could still do for the good of the service.  And his admission that this amounted to barely anything at all communicated the magnitude of his suffering to Valjean with absolute clarity.

 

Valjean could not come up with any explanation other than a trite assurance that this was all for the best.  “I am sorry.”  Close to tears, he had no words other than the exact same ones Javert said to him just hours ago.

 

Maybe Javert was able to relate to the feeling of powerlessness that moved Valjean to make that apology, because he kept the conversation civil despite his obvious frustration and lack of understanding. “I warned you before we left Paris that inspectors die in the line of duty all the time, yet now you are over-reacting.”

 

“I only wish for your body to heal quickly so you can perform your duties unimpaired once again.”

 

“I have been reporting my work on this case Préfet Gisquet, and we communicated under the assumption that I will personally supervise this case.”

 

“I will send him a letter to let him know the case had been delegated.”

 

“Yes, Monsieur le maire.”  They were back to the same resigned declaration of obedience again, an emotional barrier which Valjean knew was the unavoidable consequence of him imposing his wishes on Javert as a town mayor to his chief inspector. Now that this matter was settled, he wondered whether they could leave their professional lives behind and relate to each other as two men. 

 

Valjean walked around the table to Javert’s side, and Javert turned to face him.  “As mayor I gave you orders you are unhappy about.  Is there anything I can do for you, as Jean Valjean?”

 

Much to his surprise, Javert’s response was an immediate and clear “Yes.”  Ecstatic with joy, he followed Javert into their bedroom without stopping to ask for clarification.

 

He watched as Javert sat down on the bed and raised both of his arms slowly, with a grimace, and began to pull off the top layer of undershirt he was wearing.  Valjean turned his back to check the fireplace; Javert had allowed it to burn out long before, because there was only a pile of coal in the hearth, none of which radiated any residual heat onto his open palm.  Javert will need to go in soon to reassign shifts, so they were not going to stay long enough for it to be worth the effort to rekindle the fire now.

 

When Valjean turned back to the bed to he was shocked to discover that Javert was halfway through removing his drawers. He watched with mounting trepidation as Javert calmly placed all his clothing in a disordered but compact pile on the wood floor at the base of the bed and folded the thick woolen blanket lengthwise off to one side.  Javert wordlessly spread his stark naked body on the bed then turned his head away.

 

“What is this?” Valjean asked when he found his voice. But he knew the answer already.

 

“I currently have in my possession about sixty francs. This body seems to be worth more to you than the francs, so I will continue to pay you with it.”

 

Valjean sat on the bed, with his back to Javert. He was fully clothed, dressed in jacket, waistcoat, and cravat; respectable clothing fit for the mayor of a town. Behind him, Javert tried to offer everything he had to give without reservation, putting himself in a position where he had no weapon in his hand, nothing to hide behind, in front of a man who could overpower him even if he were not injured.

 

Valjean wanted to check Javert’s injuries anyway, so he took this opportunity to lay his hand over the bruise on Javert’s ribs and gently checked it for signs of swelling.  And he was satisfied with the minimal extent of the swelling – the cold compresses had undoubtedly helped.  If only Javert would count that night as payment, everything could be settled between them. “You already offered your body, and I had taken it,” he said, expressing himself as clearly as possible.  “You are no longer in debt to me.”

 

“What happened that night could only conscionably be described as me being serviced by you, not me paying you.” Javert said in response, still turned away from him.

 

Valjean scrutinized the white hair on Javert’s upturned temple and decided that they were indeed new. The hair must have turned white within the span of the past day.  They have had this discussion before, and Valjean did not come up with any new arguments to try this time, but at least this was a personal discussion, not a professional one.  “Would you have let that happen if you were not trying to pay me?” he asked.

 

“No.”

 

“And what do you expect me to do to you, so that you can pay now?” Valjean asked, with every intention to learn what it was that Javert found abhorrent enough to actually qualify as payment and no intention whatsoever in actually doing what he asked.

After some thought Javert finally turned to face Valjean, his confusion completely transparent on his face.  “That is a good question,” Javert muttered.  “I did not think that far.”

“You seemed to have enjoyed what I did last time,” Valjean reminded him. His memory of that night was still terribly vivid, dominated by sights and sounds which now assaulted his senses. He was certain the sounds which Javert made that night could not have been sounds of pain, unless he was going deaf. He shook his head in an attempt to clear from it these inappropriate thoughts, but blood had already rushed up to his head.  He loosened his cravat, which suddenly felt constricting.

“You will not do anything to my body that I would find objectionable, yet I don’t have much else to pay you with…” Javert mumbled to himself.  


“What I did was not objectionable?”  That was a decidedly positive statement, coming out of Javert.

“It was more than tolerable.” This was still an indirect statement but the meaning was perfectly clear.  For a man who would never admit to having needs, this could mean anything from ‘I liked it’ to ‘I want it’ to ‘I can’t live without it’, and Valjean decided that he would be happy for it to mean any of these.

 

“If you find it tolerable, I can…” Valjean felt his cravat tighten again, even though he had just loosened it. He could not come up with any better term to describe what they did, so he used Javert’s euphemism of choice, “… service you every night.”

 

“What did you say?”

 

“But you have to change to a more reasonable schedule, so we could see each other at home.” 

 

“Valjean,” Javert said, and Valjean saw that all signs of confusion had gone from his face.  “Did you just try to bribe me?”  He clarified his question with a gesture at his lower body, adding “With service?”

 

“Of course,” Valjean threw out his hands in exasperation, “Of course you would think that.” He gestured at Javert’s lower body with a broad sweep of his arm, “You took all your clothes off, and you accuse me of bribing you?”  Why were they both gesturing at Javert’s lower body as if it were a third person in the conversation?

 

“I offered my body without making any requests.  It was not a bribe.” 

 

“Javert. I only asked that you do what you already promised you would.  Take a four hour shift at the docks if you wish, but come home after that.”

 

“There is still the paperwork.  It does not complete itself.”

 

The seemingly endless paperwork was one unavoidable part of his time as mayor that Valjean did not miss.  “Let it wait a few days, then work from home.” The most important paperwork, pertaining to the corrupt inspectors, had already been dealt with. Valjean was certain the rest could wait at least a few days.  He knew he was right when Javert did not argue but instead appeared deep in thought.

 

“In bed?” Javert asked.  “Yes,” Valjean responded.

 

“This is a clear attempt at bribery. Article 177 states that every public officer who shall have received any gifts or presents…” Javert began, and Valjean interjected, “Not now --” but that did not dissuade Javert from finishing his explanation, “…shall be condemned to a fine of double the value of the things received.  This means after you service me once, I must service you twice. It is written in the Code.”  

 

This was said with a detached and stoic tone that would make a professor at the Sorbonne weep with envy.  Valjean’s mind went blank with incomprehension for a moment before he collapsed onto the bed, bent over double with laugher.  He laughed until the almost completely healed stab wound on his side began to ache.  He turned away and wiped at his watering eyes before turning back to Javert. 

 

Javert was unhappy.

 

“You did not intend for that to be a joke?” Valjean asked in disbelief.  Javert answered with a shake of his head.  But once Valjean considered the odd request seriously, all mirth and merriment vanished instantaneously. The thought of asking Javert to reciprocate at all made him uncomfortable, not to mention an inherently unfair arrangement where Javert gave twice.  And at this moment he could not even imagine himself doing anything at all to Javert. He let his gaze wonder lazily down Javert’s body, to his groin.  Valjean had consciously avoided this area while applying the cold compresses because Javert woke out of his desperately needed rest just from the sensation of the cold cloth on his arms and legs.  If he got anywhere close to the places where Javert was sensitive – he had a very good idea of where those places were -- Javert would not have gotten any sleep the entire night.  Valjean closed his eyes and swallowed to clear the saliva that materialized in his mouth out of nowhere.  He should not think those thoughts now, because now Javert’s groin was one of the most bruised and swollen on his entire body, and because the bruises and swelling have already fully formed, not much could be done to help speed its dissipation. Nothing he could do can possibly be pleasurable to Javert until he had time to heal. Javert’s ribs trembled under his hand. If he felt cold now, he will feel cold out at the docks in the depths of the night, no matter how many layers he wore.

 

Four hours was still far too long, Valjean thought to himself as he covered Javert with the blanket.  Valjean looked into Javert’s eyes; this was something he could still do which he would never tire of doing.  They still reminded him of a clear blue sky, so open and boundless he could almost see an eagle soar across it.  That night he saw the snow thaw across the fields beneath this sky, and that layer of moisture was supposed to rejuvenate the land.  Now he sensed, irrationally, that the field was going fallow and this filled him with dread.

 

“I have nothing to pay you with and since you covered me with the blanket you must have come to the same conclusion,” Javert said, his voice pulling Valjean out of his thoughts.  “What are you thinking now?” 

 

Javert seemed to have gotten over his bout of unhappiness.  Valjean did not understand why, and at the moment he did not care.  He removed his shoes and joined Javert under the blanket. The simple fact that Javert was next to him in the bed calmed him, and he smiled.

 

“Two nights ago when we moved you back here from my factory, the doctor asked me about the arrest of Plourde,” Valjean said to break the silence. 

 

“Why?” 

 

“He spoke to multiple inspectors on the day shift, who pieced together Rousset’s account by little tidbits they caught in passing during shift changes.  It had quickly become a legend.”  Valjean waited for Javert to respond, and when he failed to, added, “All accounts involve a soufflé.” 

 

“Yes, a soufflé was involved.”

 

“The most popular account of what happened is that you baked a giant soufflé at the coal stove in the back of the station, then ate it with a special spoon while you strode over to the mairie with the arrest warrant.”

 

“A special spoon?”

 

Valjean shrugged.  “Not surprisingly, they did not go into detail about how it was special.”

 

“This is why it is so critical to have eye-witnesses record testimonies in writing without delay.”

 

“What actually happened?  The doctor said that all the men on the day shifts now refer to you as Chef.” 

 

Javert chuckled softly.  “Now that you know I spend all my time on duty baking soufflés, do you want the forty-eight francs you just paid me back?” he asked. He turned his head to observed Valjean’s reaction, which was a deep frown.  The aura of gloom he perceived around Valjean was becoming stronger, and he suspected that Valjean was still over-reacting to his injuries. He found this irritating. “You were supposed to laugh at this,” Javert commented. 

 

“No Javert, I do not want your money,” Valjean said. During the weeks in Paris he massaged Javert’s arm often.  He reached across Javert’s body and found it now, closed his hand around the break without needing to see it.  The bone had ridged up where the break healed in poor alignment.  He rubbed the muscles.  They were tense.  Javert was in pain from the stab wound further down the arm.  “Look at you,” Valjean whispered.  It was always difficult for him to communicate with Cosette, but in a way that was to be expected given unavoidable barriers due to age and gender. She knew how to find her own happiness and he would only have held her back.  Javert was completely different.

 

“What?” Javert asked.  Valjean knew that his sentiment was entirely lost to Javert, but he also hoped that with enough time they would be able to understand each other.

 

“Do you need to go re-assign schedules?”

 

“Yes.  They do not expect me to show up for another half hour, but I might as well go now.”

 

“I will bring the uniform for you, and write the letter to notify Préfet Gisquet while you are gone.”

 

-

That night when Javert came back and got into the bed, Valjean rolled over and rested his arm across Javert’s chest. And every time he woke in the middle of the night, his heart racing in terror by that recurring vision of Inspector Platt at the door with bloodstained hands, the cadenced rise and fall of Javert’s chest reminded him that what he saw was nothing more than a dream.

 

Until Javert left in the middle of the night for his shift.

 

-

 

Javert assigned himself to the shift from three in the morning to sunrise.

 

During the long nights, he mounted his horse whenever he felt his weak and aching body could tolerate it, and rode north along the river.  It was thirteen kilometers from Montreuil to where the Canche River flowed into the English Channel at Etaplés, a two-way trip he could have made in half an hour if he were uninjured. Along the way the sandy, muddy banks of the river cut across boundless grassy plains.  Each night he rode north along the river, trying to outrun the line of lanterns until he was greeted by the glorious spectacle of star-filled sky.  The docks themselves were far too heavily lighted to see much from, and he knew the smugglers must come from this direction, so he allowed himself this leave from his post.

 

But the line of lanterns extended further north with each night, as his body became progressively weaker. And soon the only time he was able to see any stars was at the end of his shift each night, when he rode away from the river and looped around the north end of the ramparts, towards the open fields which lay across the west, barren in winter.  He caught the last glimpses of the stars as they sparkled against the horizon in their descent, where the fiery orange-red sky met the brown dirt fields.  In those moments, with no other living soul in sight, he wondered how much a single man could do. How much the two young inspectors riding behind him would see during their lifetimes, what the world will be like in thirty years when they would be his age now. At any other point in his life he would jump at the opportunity to stand guard through the night at a place like this, night after night.  Not anymore.  He wished to be somewhere else.

 

At the end of each day he walked past the countless crates piled high against each wall in the lobby of the mairie, surrounded by extra lanterns orphaned out of their shipping crates.  He dragged himself up the steps of the staircase to the mayor’s office on the second floor, where Leblanc greeted him each morning with an ill-concealed expression of profound relief all over his face.

 

And Javert could no longer bring himself to be angry at him, even though it was irrational for him to have been concerned in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coat-of-arms of Paris:  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coat_of_arms_of_Paris
> 
> Coat-of-arms of Montreuil:  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Montreuil,_Pas-de-Calais
> 
> Full text of Article 177, Code Penal (1810):  
> http://www.napoleon-series.org/research/government/france/penalcode/c_penalcode3a.html
> 
> 177\. Every public officer of the administrative or judiciary order, every agent or overseer of any public administration, who shall have accepted any offers or promises, or received any gifts or presents, to do any act of his function or employment, even if just, but not entitling him to payment; shall be punished with the pillory, and condemned to a fine of double the value of the promises accepted, or things received; the said fine to be never less than 200 francs.


	32. Chapter 32

Valjean was happy.

 

Valjean was content. 

 

Javert left in the middle of the night, yes, and he was not home every morning when Valjean woke up, ate breakfast, and readied himself for another day at the mairie.  But once Valjean arrived at the mairie, the necessary tasks of reading through his schedule for the day and then assigning Verne the valet errands in preparation for the meetings -- usually for him to go fetch some papers or go out and get an answer from someone – occupied Valjean to within minutes for his meeting with the chief inspector.  And Javert was compulsively punctual, if not early. 

 

Though Valjean could tell that the four-hour shifts were definitely taking a toll on Javert physically, he was able to check with his own eyes each night that Javert was healing.  And Valjean went home at the end of each day to new pieces of furniture Javert built to furnish their house.  First was a new nightstand to replace the tower of three moving crates stacked together.  Next came a full-sized bookcase for all their books, a wooden bench for their living room, a bureau with five drawers in their bedroom to store all their clothing … He wondered whether one of these evenings he would find himself standing dumbfounded on the Place Gambetta outside their front door because he could not recognize their house -- which Javert had rebuilt down to its foundations.  He decided he would not mind that even a single bit. They could use the furniture, and he could talk Javert into counting all of this as payment should Javert make other demands to ‘service him twice’.  When Javert ran out of things to build, he just had to make some of the furniture disappear.  He could give it away to families in need, he could break them ‘by accident’, and as an absolute last resort he could even set them on fire.  Since they belonged to him, it would not be a crime.  However, it would be a horrible waste given the exceptional workmanship in every perfectly smooth hinge, every dovetailed joint, and every flat panel sanded to a dull shine. 

 

But Valjean could overlook this, just as he could feign a benign interest with a smile on his face when Javert lectured about the law in bed each night.  Those things did not matter. 

 

He wanted nothing more.   

 

In his life happiness like this never lasted long, and he knew that true happiness could only come from God’s grace in the eternity of afterlife.  So whenever he felt guilt for being in the possession of something so precious while so many still lived with basic needs unmet, he reminded himself that this would not last.

 

This was why when he went home one night and saw only a pile of wood and a piece of furniture discarded so early in its assembly that he could not begin to guess what Javert intended it to be, he was not sad or surprised.  He was only bitterly disappointed.

 

He found a note on their new nightstand, held securely in place by the weight of Javert’s Legion d’Honneur medal. It was written in a hasty hand and covered by small smudges of wood dust.

 

_I am on duty per Préfet Gisquet’s orders.  He mentioned that he sent correspondence to you separately.  If you have further questions, ask me at our usual meeting._

 

_Javert_

 

Valjean had not received any letters from Paris that day, but he spent the last hour at his factory and any letter from Préfet Gisquet would have been delivered to the mairie.  Javert still technically belonged to the Paris police, and was assigned to serve in the municipal police of Montreuil-sur-Mer temporarily, as a loan.  Any order to Javert from the Paris prefecture superseded those from the town’s mayor, especially one which came directly from the préfet himself.

 

He climbed the staircase in the mairie and the letter was waiting for him on his desk in his office.  He opened it with the rote, mechanical motions of a man who, powerless in the face of the mysterious will of God, surrendered to his fate.

 

_Monsieur le maire a Montreuil-sur-Mer, Leblanc,_

 

_The British ambassador to France, The Rt. Hon. Viscount Granville, relentlessly impressed upon me the wishes of His Majesty King William IV, that this opium smuggling case be dealt with as the highest of priorities.  It is their understanding that one of the finest inspectors in the prefecture had been assigned to direct the case, and previous similar cases were typically resolved within one year._

_Best wishes for your, and chief inspector Javert’s, good health._

_Préfet Gisquet_

 

One year, Gisquet wrote.  Yet Javert had clearly explained a few days ago that he expected the smugglers to return within one month at most, and he must have reported the same to the préfet.  Gisquet must also be fully aware of Javert’s injury and the situation in the police department in this town, because no matter how Javert tried to understate the situation in his reports, Valjean did not in the report he submitted to the same prefecture in his official capacity as mayor.  He wrote that the doctor prescribed one week of bed rest and followed by one month of restricted duty, and Javert could not have written anything that contradicted the truth.  International relations between France and England had been contentious since the two countries took opposite sides in the American Revolutionary War, and only became worse when Napoleon massed troops at Boulogne for his planned, but ultimate recalled, invasion across the Channel in 1804.  So how would Gisquet react when the British ambassador tried to tell him how to run his department?

 

Gisquet obviously meant for Javert to treat the case as high priority in name only.  He probably wouldn’t mind if progress on the case stalled for a whole year, just to spite the British.  The second sentence already made this clear, and his final wish for Javert’s good health was as far as he could go in an official correspondence to convey that the entire thing was a ploy.  Valjean imagined that the order he sent to Javert was probably laden with similarly deceptive language. If Gisquet knew Javert well, he might have even taken pains to make the letter to Javert more obvious than this one. He referred to Javert as one of the prefecture’s finest, so he probably held Javert’s judgment and intellect in high regard, and in Valjean’s opinion he would be correct to do so.

 

Gisquet only made one mistake, but that one mistake was fatal.  He assumed that Javert was capable of interacting with an order in any way other than to follow it to the letter.  Literally.

 

Javert was not.

 

The order Gisquet sent could have asked for something completely ludicrous like for Javert to open fire on an entire army without any assistance, and the text could have consisted of a one sentence directive followed by a full page of out-of-place platitudes similar to that wish for good health, but that still would not change a thing. Javert would probably roll his eyes at the convoluted sentences and get dressed for the suicide mission as if he were simply reporting for another day on duty. 

 

Inside the barricades Javert watched everything even when he was tied to a post with full knowledge that he was going to be shot as soon as a pair of hands could be spared.  He must be at the docks now with a very similar mindset.

 

Valjean knew that the only guaranteed way to fix this would require a candid and straightforward second letter from Gisquet, which could possibly start a war if it were ever put on paper. If there were a way to get Javert in the same room with Gisquet, the order could be clarified verbally. But Javert would not abandon his post to make the three-day trip, and the préfet would not either.

 

He refolded the letter along its creases and returned it back into its envelope.  With the letter tucked in his inner chest pocket he exited the mairie and, instead of walking back the way he came along the Place Gambetta, turned and walked aimlessly down the Rue de la Chaine. 

 

He wanted to go visit Javert at the docks and explain this letter to him, but nothing good could come out of a disagreement in public about whether a written directive from the préfet should be interpreted literally.  The soonest he could discuss this with Javert would be at their daily meeting, over thirteen hours from now.  Valjean knew he would not be able to get any semblance of restful sleep the entire night and there was no rush for him to be anywhere, so he allowed his legs to take him in a straight path down the cobblestone road, until he looked up and found himself standing in front of the imposing double doors of the police station.

 

The winter wind moaned mournfully as it swept down the wide and barren boulevard, and in its midst Valjean heard Javert’s repeated, semi-conscious muttering -- “There is no justice.” Javert said this not with the affected demeanor of a terrified man deep in the throes of a nightmare; instead he was stoic like the man who coped with the nightmare by rationalizing it to himself. Valjean suspected that Javert’s nightmare was still the same one with them both in hell.  He still did not comprehend fully the nature of this nightmare and did not want to press for an explanation.  Whatever it was, he prayed that Javert was calmed by his presence in the same way Javert’s presence calmed him.

 

To Valjean, the biggest failure of justice during this entire ordeal was to sentence the men who almost killed Javert to a meager five-year imprisonment.  This injustice was supposedly immortalized in a tome.  Valjean had meant to check the Code Pénal for himself but put off that trip to the police station so he could go home as early as possible each night to spend time with Javert.  Now he had subconsciously made the trip to the police station, and it must be God’s will that he procrastinate no longer.

 

-

 

The young man at the front desk held one end of a pair of handcuffs in his hands.  It emitted a string of crisp clicks as he opened and closed it rapidly with a practiced efficiency.  In Paris Valjean could have mistaken this sound for the metronome owned by the young boy next-door, its ticks steady and reliable and unyielding like Javert as it notified any listener, willing or not, of the inevitable passage of time.

 

It must be getting colder out at the docks, Valjean thought to himself with a pang of guilt as he walked up to the front desk. The young inspector threw the pair of handcuffs into a drawer behind the desk and listened attentively as Valjean explained the situation and asked for a spare copy of the Code Pénal.

 

“You may of course browse through our copies yourself, Monsieur le maire, but I would trust Chief Inspector Javert’s words more than any printed in one of the books.  After all, a book could have misprints or be out-of-date,” he said with an amused smile, then directed Valjean to a large bookcase against the back wall of the station, just next to the door that opens into Javert’s office. The shelves at eye-level, and all below them, were packed full of miscellaneous volumes which covered topics as diverse as hand-to-hand combat techniques, maps, basic medical knowledge, interrogation techniques, and husbandry.  Four large volumes, two bound in cloth and two in leather, occupied the top two shelves. They lay on their sides, all too tall to be filed standing like the others.  Valjean had retrieved the leather-bound volume titled _Code P_ _énal, MDCCCX_ down from the shelf when the young inspector mentioned casually, “These are personal copies which belong to the chief inspector.  People say that he left them behind years ago when he was promoted to Paris.”

 

“All four of these?” Valjean asked as he tilted his head slightly to one side to read the titles on the spines.

 

“Yes, Monsieur le maire, all four of these,” the young man responded before he excused himself and went back to the front desk.

 

He remembered clearly that the book Javert said his mother taught him to read from was the 1794 version of _Code P_ _énal_ , but judging from Javert’s age, he must have been close to adulthood by then. Javert may have learned to read from the 1794 version of _Code P_ _énal_ as an idealistic young guard in Toulon; he may have even pieced together his understanding of the world by tireless perusal of its sweat-warped pages through countless long nights.  But he could not have loved this tome as an innocent boy.

 

Valjean traded this book for the tattered, cloth-bound tome titled _Coutumes de Paris_. It had a stained cover, dents and tears on every corner, and a binding so close to coming entirely undone that the spine dangled from the pages.  It had survived a lot of abuse.  The _Coutumes de Paris_ detailed the customs that applied in Paris and provinces to its northeast, including Faverolles, prior to the revolution of 1794 when there was no unified code of law in the country. He opened the copy of _Coutumes de Paris_ to its title page. An ornate illustration of that vessel featured on the arms of Paris they spoke about a few nights ago occupied much of it. The empty space above the vessel was colored in a charcoal gray by an unskilled hand which struggled to follow the lines of the illustration.  Crudely drawn stick figures, all in a faded blue, populated the vessel. Two wore triangles on their heads which were probably bicorne hats.  They stood proudly on the hull, the mast, even some of the oars which protruded from the body of the vessel on both sides.  Yellow smudges filled the space above the mast, barely visible against the gray background.  Valjean brushed across the page with his thumb.  Some of the gray sky stuck to his finger.  It was coal dust.  The other colors felt waxy; they were likely applied with crayons.

 

It was commonplace for a young boy living in Paris to be enamored by the constant stream of majestic vessels all along the Seine, and a drawing like this usually signified nothing more than a desire to get aboard one and go sea-faring.  After all, Cosette had included one such drawing by Lucién in a recent letter.

 

Valjean pondered these stick figures drawn by a young Javert.  He could not think of them as anything other than guards for the vessel.

 

He sat on the bench next that infamous coal-burning stove and flipped through the rest of the heavy book, careful not to damage the loose bindings any further.  The outer edges of every single page was crinkled and bent, signifying without a doubt that the book was well loved in its time.  He hoped to find other illustrations, but the rest of the pages were all packed full of text arranged almost edge-to-edge in two columns.

 

The book felt heavy and substantial in his lap. He tried to imagine a young Javert nestled in his mother’s lap as she read to him from this book. It was difficult to imagine Javert as a small boy not much taller than his knee; it was even more difficult to picture his mother in any detail beyond a woman with dark skin tone scantily clothed in wretched, torn rags, a pitiable excuse for a dress.  When confronted with failure on the impossible task of sheltering her child from the misery of her daily existence, a homeless mother always arrived at the conclusion that the need to keep her body adequately covered was one of vanity and therefore one to be sacrificed.  Valjean could imagine the way she looked at him, the way all mothers looked at a beloved child.  Warmed by this thought he closed the book with a smile on his lips, then the other three large volumes from the shelf.

 

He flipped through each page, probably over fifteen hundred in all, in his attempt to find another glimpse into Javert’s soul. There was only one other illustration, on the title page of Javert’s copy of _Code de Civil Fran_ _çais_ ,and this page was pristine _._ It depicted a woman seated on a throne, august and all-powerful; a set of scales hung from the fingers of her extended left hand while the sword in her right hand rested across her lap. A tamed lion couched at her feet and an eagle stood at her side.  She was the personification of the abstract ideal which was justice, yet she appeared so much more real to Valjean than any image of Javert’s mother he could conceive. 

 

After completing his search for illustrations, Valjean turned his attention to his original goal of confirming Javert’s claim about the five-year imprisonment.  One of the unsolicited bedtime lectures Javert subjected him to delved into the supposed marvel which was the hierarchical layout of the Code. Now Valjean was able to skim the table of contents and quickly navigate from ‘crimes committed on individuals’ down to specifically ‘willful blows’ in the over four hundred page book within a matter of minutes.  The text clearly specified ‘twenty days out of work’, exactly as Javert said.

 

A committee of aristocrats, still wearing the elaborate powdered wigs that had long been out of fashion amongst the general populace, materialized in his mind’s eye.  They were months into their convention yet still had no sight of the end, and on this day, after hours of deliberation while hunched over a large table, they’ve made a decision.  The crime of assault was to be punished according to the severity of injuries suffered by the victim. A man who caused prolonged damage to the victim’s livelihood and therefore put him at risk of starvation should obviously be punished far more harshly than another who only caused cuts, bruises, and sprains.  But how could a judge decide which was the case?  “Well,” said one of the mouths dwarfed by a giant wig, “that is simple. The judge can check for how many days the victim was unable to work.  The victim’s employer could testify to this so it is difficult to falsify.” “A typical sprain should heal in a few weeks?” asked a different wig as it shed a plume of white powder. “Let us set it at twenty days and move on,” said the largest wig of them all, “Next on the list is involuntary homicide.”   

 

Was it less of a crime to assault a priest who could work with a broken arm, as opposed to a carpenter who could not? Who would be left to patrol the streets if every policeman took twenty days off duty for a severe sprain? What if the victim was so crucial to the function of the town that the police reported to him even while he was unconscious?  How could he not work for twenty days?

 

Valjean saw a small boy who clutched a large clothbound book against his chest, as if it shielded him from the world. Javert, he thought. Javert.  This book was not written to protect men like you, even though it would be nothing more than a meaningless collection of words without men like you to enforce it.  But how could that boy who could not yet read have any idea what he was dedicating his life to?

 

He was startled out of his anguished thoughts by a timid voice.  “Monsieur le maire?” it asked.  “Monsieur le maire, was I too loud in my practice with the handcuffs?  I sincerely apologize.”

 

“No, inspector.”  Valjean responded as he looked up at the frightened young man standing in front of him.  “Even if you were, why should you be afraid?”  Non-judgmental and compassionate, he gave the young man a benevolent smile. “You face far worse than an angry mayor on the streets each day.”

 

The young man laughed.  “If you don’t mind, I shall go back to my practice.”

 

“What are you practicing?”

 

“There will be a competition in the department in two days,” the young inspector explained, his previous timidity entirely gone and replaced by a giddy excitement.   “The chief inspector is going to personally tell the story behind the arrest of former mayor Plourde to the man most competent with his handcuffs.”

 

Valjean kept his smile plastered on his face while he internally relived the monologues which Javert delivered in a monotone as bedtime stories.  The expected dryness of its delivery aside, Javert’s account of the arrest could not be half as endearing as the fantastical story they’ve come up with for themselves.

 

“I am afraid the chief inspector’s habit of understatement makes him a bad storyteller,” Valjean said, and tried to think of some comforting words in case the young inspector was disappointed. Everyone in the department must have been under tremendous emotional duress over the past week.

 

To his surprise, the young man nodded in agreement. “Yes, Platt and I discussed this. Rousset told everyone that he would ask the chief inspector to wear a chef’s hat for a day if he wins, because he already knows the inside story.  We think that is a better prize, and if we could get everyone to agree to ask for it then we could all share the prize no matter who wins.”

 

Valjean mentally replaced Javert’s top hat with a puffy white chef’s hat.  The image put a genuine smile on his face.  “What a marvelous idea!” he exclaimed.

 

“Yes, monsieur le maire.  I will let the others know you think so.  Chief inspector Javert did not tell us how best to practice, so everyone is practicing their own way.” 

 

Once fond memories, now bittersweet, of Javert practicing in the backyard in Paris came back to him.  “The chief inspector practiced on tree branches,“ he said. When Javert's hand was taken from him, he did the best he could with the one that was left.

 

“Tree branches?” the young man smiled to himself. “Thank you for the hint, Monsieur le maire.  Is there anything else I can help you with?”

 

“No, inspector.  I have found what I need and will leave you to your practice.”

 

Valjean dusted the covers of the books with his hands before returning each of them to their original locations. He exited the station into the chilly night.  A few stars were visible in the sky overhead.  The image of the vessel so dominated his thoughts that he turned his head and saw it inexplicably crashed ashore at the far end of the empty and dusty boulevard. The stick figure guardsmen stood around the wreckage, despondent and marooned in the barren street, their heads hung low, their triangle hats in hand.

 

Lady Justice watched impassively from her throne a distance away.

 

Do not despair, Valjean called out to them in his thoughts as he subconsciously searched his pockets with his hands. The vessel may have wrecked, but it did not sink.  It could be repaired to its former glory.

 

He realized with a start that he was searching for his rosary, which had slipped through his fingers and shattered into a thousand little shards all over his factory floor when inspector Platt appeared at the door.  Platt’s hands left blood on the knocker on his factory door.  He took deep breaths and kept himself from reliving the nightmare yet again.

 

He did not know what time it was, except that the night was far from over.  There was little hope of getting any restful sleep, so he walked in the direction of the vessel then made the turn towards his factory.  His vision of the vessel persisted up to the moment he turned off the boulevard.

 

-

He unlocked the door to his factory and entered. All was quiet; his workers were asleep. 

 

Though he had scarcely been present at the factory, he took care to ensure a good working environment.  The factory floor was well organized with buckets of sand and soda ash in one corner, and bundles of seaweed drying on racks along the wall. A crate sat in the opposite corner, filled with finished rosaries awaiting final inspection before they were packed for sale. 

 

His workers had become adept at the manufacture of simple round beads after his demonstration, but still struggled mightily with the far more complex process to manufacture faceted beads. Round beads served the same purpose – to keep count of the prayers -- as faceted beads when they were strung together and used as a rosary, but customers prefer the sparkle of faceted beads and they sell far better.  So he asked his workers to persevere with their efforts until mastery inevitably arrived in its own time.  As of the last update he received from them, their success rate on the faceted beads was still only one in ten.

 

He could leave with one of the finished rosaries from the top of the pile.  They belonged to him and Javert would not call that a theft.  But that was because Javert did not understand. No, though a rosary of faceted beads would be difficult even for his experienced hands to make, he will make one for himself and think of ways to teach his workers the process.

 

One furnace had been left on to provide warmth through the night.  He posted a brief note at the top of the staircase to alert his workers of his presence so they will not be terrified if they woke to the sound, then settled down and got to work.

 

He made five round beads, sanded facets all over their surface, then put them into the furnace for a final polish. He ended up with three melted together and two with some of their faceted edges melted away. That was all right, because he had the whole night.  If it were too simple his salvation would feel unearned.

 

He redoubled his efforts. 

 

As he worked he prayed to God.

 

He prayed for this not to be one of those times He took a good man for the greater good.  And he prayed for Lady Justice to show mercy to a man who she should be proud to call her son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that you all liked the illustration, and that Valjean's vision with the stick figures around the shipwreck came across as moving as opposed to funny. Let me know if you thought it was funny ... because then I will rewrite it.
> 
> -
> 
> Title page of the Code Civil de Francais:  
> https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B2-oiRFgQM6ITHp3TVFNZW91TmM/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> -
> 
> Viscount Granville and King William IV were really the ambassador and king in 1832. 
> 
> Information on French-British relations:  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/France%E2%80%93United_Kingdom_relations


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Ravenna44, a phenomenal writer in this fandom with exquisite prose. Please visit her account here on AO3 to see her works.

The metal tip of his dip pen stabbed clean through the paper and into the nothingness below. 

 

Valjean cursed under his breath.

 

“Monsieur le maire?” the schoolteacher he was meeting with, a younger genial man, had done a very poor job of disguising his furtive curious glances at the crack clean through the top surface of the solid walnut wood desk from the moment he walked through the door.

 

“If my valet told you it was the chief inspector who did this –“

 

“No, Monsieur le maire, he did not.”

 

“It was I.  I split the desk.”

 

The teacher, with short dark brown hair and a mustache, dipped his head politely.  “Yes, Monsieur le maire.” 

 

Feeling a pang of guilt that he had made the man feel like he was at fault, Valjean softly spoke a few words of apology and reached to retrieve a new piece of paper from the desk drawer. It would not open.

 

With the top of the desk bent out of shape, the desk drawer was stuck in its rails.  Valjean closed his hand around the handle on its front and gave the drawer a hard yank. The drawer flew out as the split widened further with a loud crack.

 

Valjean pretended he did not notice the wide-eyed expression on the teacher’s face.  “Please, Monsieur, explain why you expect the school to lose money even if the town subsidized the school at half a franc per student per week.”

 

“We do not have enough books and would need to purchase more if we enroll as many as you propose…”

 

This was a meeting to decide how much of the town’s revenues was necessary to provide free schooling to the young children, and a second objective he took pains to make sure no one else suspected -- how much of Valjean’s own money was need to make up for the inevitable shortfall. The town’s tax revenue was abysmal and will remain that way until merchants came this far down the Canche River again. He was wealthy enough to give Cosette everything she ever asked for while living frugally himself, but not enough to finance an entire town for any significant length of time. In the short term, certain things will have to get priority over others.

 

He took careful note of everything the teacher mentioned, but his mind was not completely focused on this meeting.

 

He was still angry over his meeting with Javert.

 

-

 

Valjean’s patience had been exhaustively frayed by a combination of gut-wrenching anxiety and sleep deprivation built up over an entire week when Javert finally arrived at the mairie for their meeting. He was covered so heavily with dust and sand that what came through the door of the mayoral office resembled a dust storm more than a man.  A visible cloud trailed in Javert’s wake.  So much sand fell off of his boots that Verne stepped into Javert’s path and blocked him from proceeding any further.

 

“Monsieur le inspecteur, pardon me. May I trouble you to turn back and shake off the dust outdoors before entering?” Verne asked discreetly. Valjean wondered whether he thought asking nicely made the request any more acceptable.  To turn Javert back from his meeting after a fourteen-hour shift because he was too dirty?

 

“No!  Verne, it is your duty as valet to clean up after any and all guests to the mairie. You do not ask the chief inspector to clean himself first!”  He had blown up at the boy, and almost at Javert too because the damned man actually took a bow and turned to head back out the door.  “Javert, inspector.  Come back in.”

 

Valjean barely paid attention the litany of apologies uttered by Verne as he excused himself and closed the door behind him.

 

He looked at Javert, who took up his usual position a few steps in front of the desk, always at the exact same distance as if there was a mark on the floor that dictated where the chief inspector of the town should stand when he gave reports. 

 

This upcoming conversation had played out in its entirety in his mind during the night over and over, again and again. Whenever his mind slipped out of the forced tranquility of prayer he would attempt this conversation again, initiate it a new way.  What combination of words could possibly get Javert to acknowledge Gisquet’s true intent – for him not to take the smuggling case seriously?  For the myriad variation in the first lines exchanged, the end of the conversation was disappointingly – and treacherously – invariable. It always ended with failure and mutual bitterness which, given how little time they spent with each other, was destined to linger and fester.  There was no reason to waste precious time on such an argument when Javert needed to be sleeping.

 

The dust had settled in the office. Valjean reached inside his jacket and retrieved Gisquet’s letter from the inner chest pocket where it had spent the entire night.  It was warm with body heat.

 

“This is the letter Préfet Gisquet sent to me. Read it, inspector.” He lowered his gaze to his desk as he waited the few seconds it took Javert to do as ordered. He rubbed at his eyes and then briefly rested his forehead against his fingertips.  There were stretches of time when he was in Toulon where he had to perform far more strenuous work while on even less sleep than he had in the past week, and under similar levels of angst.  The years had taken its toll on him, as it must have on Javert.

 

Javert return the letter by placing it onto the desk. “I am finished, Monsieur le maire,” he said.  Valjean’s eyes were still downcast when this was said, otherwise he would be able to tell from Javert’s facial expression whether the hesitation in Javert’s voice was a manifestation of frustration, fatigue, or concern.  

 

“You served in the Parisian police for years, and you are perceptive,” Valjean said. “You must be aware of all the posturing and politics.  If I can identify this as a request for the smuggling case not to be treated seriously written in intentionally deceptive language, you must also have seen this.”

 

“Yes.” A direct and simple affirmation.

 

“And?”

 

“Why does that matter?” Javert responded with a question, and Valjean knew this particular iteration of their conversation would become bitter and unpleasant after only two rounds.  The seasoned mediator in him turned to humor in an attempt to defuse the tension, even though he knew Javert had a very odd sense of humor.

 

"The British ambassador must have made Préfet Gisquet very unhappy for him to give you such an order.  This situation reminds me of a joke which used to be told in the National Guard often. It goes like this -- a Royal Navy officer once said to the famed corsair Robert Surcouf ‘You French fight for money, while we British fight for honour.’ and Surcouf replied "Sir, a man fights for what he lacks the most.’" Valjean paused here to allow for laughter. It was unnecessary. He continued with an exasperated sigh, “You ask why it matters – you are violating the intent of the order. Of course that matters.”

 

“Monsieur le maire, what you told as a joke is actually a universal truth. The French are always superior to the British.”

 

This struck Valjean as an oddly off-topic comment for Javert to make, and it only added fuel to his mounting frustration.  “Yet you still don't understand?” he demanded sharply, rising from his seat and displaying the same formidable physical presence which convinced the hardened criminals in Toulon to allow him the wide berth others earned through violence.

“Even if the British navy stormed down the Canche with the entirety of its fleet, Monsieur le maire, it does not change the fact that smuggling is wrong. Unless Préfet Gisquet explicitly prohibits me from directing this case, I will not stop.” Javert said in the same emotionless tone he used since the beginning of this conversation. Valjean looked away and took a moment to calm himself so they can move the discussion to the daily police report, and this was when the conversation took an unexpected turn. Javert continued speaking, still far too calm, but the formality in his tone was gone.  “I fight for justice.  What do you fight for?”

 

“Fight for justice, but do not stubbornly sacrifice yourself to arrest only a few smugglers.  Restraint, Javert, exercise a bit of it.”  He directed all of his rage to his hand, which he brought down onto the top surface of his table in a thunderous blow.  The wood cracked clean through.

 

He saw something flash in Javert’s eyes, but before his stunned mind could appreciate its meaning they were interrupted by a terrified Verne.  “Monsieur le maire?!” he asked with only his head through the partially open door. Valjean saw Verne’s jaw drop in disbelief when he saw the state of the desk, and then began eying the cudgel nestled under Javert’s right armpit suspiciously.

 

“Leave us be.”  Valjean said and waved him away.  Then he said to Javert, “Unless there are matters of life and death to report, you are excused.  Go home.”

 

Javert did not insist on making the report as usual. He took a bow, excused himself, and left.  Valjean sat back down in his chair.  He experienced one of those surreal moments where time seemed to slow and all ambient sounds became amplified until they were uncomfortably loud and intruded into the mind of an unwilling listener.  The curtain rustled softly next to the window behind him, open only by a sliver. His watch ticked away the seconds in his pocket while his heart pounded in his chest to a different beat, the two sounds each calming and predictable on their own, each dismembered the other until they combined into a discordant chaos.  The top steps of the staircase just outside the door creaked under the weight of someone ascending the stairs.  

 

In this state of heightened awareness and with a momentary flash of insight, Valjean understood Javert’s question to be a dying wish. An inarticulate personal request made by a man who may have never made one in his entire life. Javert was asking him to dedicate himself to a worthwhile cause.

 

He stood up and took a few steps after Javert, but stopped himself.  His shoes kicked up the dust from the paneled floor.  Then the decision was taken from him because Verne opened the door again and announced that the town treasurer was available to begin their meeting early should he wish for it.  He wondered whether Verne exchanged words with Javert when he saw the inspector exit the mairie because there was a hint of a smirk on the boy’s face.

 

“Send him in,” Valjean said.  And he had been busy with meetings since.

 

He came out of his reverie.  In the meantime, he was still in the same meeting with the schoolteacher, who was in the middle of a rambling description of the current situation in the school.

 

“… one class of boys and one class of girls, we do not have the resources to further divide by age.”

 

Valjean thought with half a mind to his earlier meeting with the town treasurer to set the salary for the fire brigade. It was the third such meeting they’ve had and still there was no number.  The fire brigade had to be paid, but how much?  The forty-eight francs he was paying Javert to stand outside every night?  The town was not making enough tax revenue to pay them much more than what they were paid, and now it was clear the school would need a large sum of money to start up too.

He had been tormented by this decision for days, but now he was numb to it.  What would a franc be to a dead man, how would it be different from any handful of the meter of soil over his coffin? 

 

It was not about the money.  This was what Javert had been trying to tell him every night.

 

“The town can pay for more teachers, that is fine. What else?”

 

“We will also need more classrooms so the teachers do not need to talk over each other…”

 

_-_

 

In the end, the pleased schoolteacher departed the mairie and went back to care for his students. 

 

Valjean checked his watch.  It was only quarter-past eleven, unusually early for his midday meal but he had no more meetings scheduled for the morning – both his meeting with the town treasurer and the schoolteacher began early and therefore ended early. He retrieved his lunch of a section of bread, some cuts of meat, and a wedge of cheese from his leather satchel. Little flakes of crumbs rained down from the piece of bread as he held it in his hand.  He hoped Javert was sleeping. 

 

He hoped for that so desperately that he decided to go see for himself. 

 

“Verne, I am going out for my meal and will be back in time for the meeting at half-past noon,” he said as he headed out to the street.

 

-

 

Their home was chosen to be located close to the mairie precisely to make travel between the two locations convenient, and Valjean was very glad of this bit of foresight as he made his impulsive trip by foot.

 

He carefully unlocked the front door, being as quiet as possible.  Javert had always been a light sleeper and the last thing Valjean wanted to do was to wake him. The floor just inside the door was a mess. Javert’s greatcoat hung from the second appendage of the coat stand, the only one Javert ever used, while his top hat rested on the top of the stand.  Both were shedding sand onto an overflowing mound centered on a piece of scrap wood panel likely repurposed from the mysterious piece of unfinished furniture. Javert’s riding boots stood against the wall next to the door, in the middle of a different pile of sand. A sparse trail of sand drew a visible path towards the closed bedroom door.

 

Valjean made his way in. 

 

Javert lay face down along the diagonal of the bed, one of his feet protruding off the mattress and only partially covered by the blanket, as if he could remain upright no longer and simply toppled over. His long hair was still tied in a queue with the black ribbon he wore.  He was so still that he almost seemed comatose.  His uniform shirt and pants hung in the corner against the bureau, slowly shedding dust and sand into several small hill-shaped piles on the floor underneath.  Javert did not bother to put a piece of wood here for easy cleanup.

 

Valjean stood in the doorway, hesitant. He had checked that Javert was asleep, as he intended.  The prudent thing to do at this point would be to leave, but he could not bring himself to. At most fifteen minutes had elapsed since he left the mairie and if he headed back now he would get back with still plenty of time until his next meeting.  He did not wish to spend this time alone.

 

He tiptoed his way back into the living room and returned with a chair which he placed next to the bed.  He settled down with his lunch in his lap and almost immediately became immersed in his thoughts.

 

He could barely believe that Javert did not wake, in fact as far as he could tell Javert had not even stirred. Yet this did not make Valjean feel any more justified to make any sound; if anything, it made him feel like a thief for the first time since the night at the barricades months ago. He watched Javert sleep and listened to his breathing.  He lowered his head and stared at his hands and the piece of bread.  He slowly worked the sleeve of his coat, jacket, and shirt up his left arm to reveal the thick jagged markings left by manacles across his wrist. There was a time long ago before his life changed when he felt only pride for the power and precision that his hands were capable of.  He was not the only one to feel that way; his father did too.

 

When his father first taught him to use the large metal plow he would later come to cherish, he was shorter than the length of its sturdy wooden handle.  His father’s large hand wrapped securely around both of his own, which were in turn wrapped around the handle of the plow.  He had tried his absolute best to imitate his father’s grip when placing his hands, and must have gotten it mostly right because the large hand only peeled back some of his fingers and repositioned them slightly.  Then his father guided his swing as he worked his way in a straight path across the vast bare plot of earth; the relatively simple task of traveling parallel to the previous plowed line requiring as much of his attention as the swing itself.

 

Valjean remembered that he looked up once. The sky was clear, and above him, his father’s face was almost entirely brown.  His God-given features of beard, hair, and eyes were all brown, and the remainder of his face was permanently caked with soil deposited every time he used his dirt-encrusted hands to wipe the dripping sweat from his face. His father’s palm was covered entirely by thick callouses and felt sharp against the backs of his hands. It stayed warm and comforting on his hands as the earth split open beneath them.

 

“Jean,” his father said when the two of them reached the edge of the field and were about to turn back for another pass, “show me your hands.”  He did. His hands left red stains on the handle when he rested it on the loosened soil.

 

“Hold it loosely,” his father said, “only tighten your grip when you hit the ground.”  He remembered the pain when his father, after wiping his large hands on his discolored trousers to clean them, used his fingers to wipe some of the dirt from his palms.  “When you hold too tight you get blisters like these.  Go home and have your mama clean this so you don’t get an infection.”

 

“Go, Jean,” he said, “We will try again tomorrow.”

 

That was the last Valjean remembered of this brief scene.  His father died when he was still young, and now even Valjean’s fondest memories of him have grown faint with time.  He knew that Javert’s mother must have gone through the trouble of bringing Javert with her to the prison so that he could have a father to look up to.  Javert said she took him to visit his father in prison often, but never made even one passing comment about his father. Valjean wondered who taught Javert to be a guard.  It almost certainly had to be colleagues since no one in his family could have been able. It must have happened while they were both in Toulon.

 

He placed the piece of bread that was supposed to be his lunch back into his coat pocket.  It was beginning to moisten and dent where he held it with his fingers.

 

Even the most fertile fields could run fallow if planted year after year after year.  This must have been another piece of wisdom he learned from his father, though he could not remember when.  Imprudently and myopically sow seed into it for a few more years and the damage would become permanent; it may never be fertile again.  For as long as he could remember a fraction of their land was left unplanted every year, a fifth of it to be exact, so that not a square centimeter of it was ever planted five years in a row. It is a blessing to have our own plot of land, even if it is one of the least arable in the commune, his father always insisted, we take care of it so it can take care of us.

 

And so after he took over the farm he did the same every year.  On good years there was enough harvest for him and his sister Jeanne’s husband to keep her seven children well-fed between them, and he would still end up with a small bit of extra to save up for the next year.  On the bad years he ate a bit less but Jeanne made sure he had enough to live. It was an honest life.

 

When calamity stuck again and Jeanne lost her husband, he let them move back to the farm and did the best he could for them. It was not much, but until the moment he was caught and put in chains, he kept them clothed and barely above starvation.  It was both so much less than he wanted to give to them, and so much more than many others received from anyone.  Even God. He soldiered on as if nothing had changed, because that was all that he could do. 

 

He left a fifth of the field unplanted even when the elders warned of a possible dry season.  It would have taken sustained labor of an unreasonable number of hours per day for him to work the entire field alone, and their neighbor had promised Jeanne that they could loan some food for her children if necessary.

 

It was God’s will for that season to be the driest in decades.  No family in the commune had enough to eat.  When one day the following spring they fed the children the last quarter of the last loaf they could buy until the next harvest in at least three months, he went to beg. He worked extra over three days so he could work only half of the fourth day.  He walked to the next commune an hour away and the first couple of times he had to do this, he was grateful in his youthful pride that at least none of the people whom he begged for food knew him personally.

 

The first few times he managed to go home with one, if not two, loaves of bread.  This they divided carefully into four even pieces to last until the next loaf, and they lived like this for what must have been over a month until more and more families ran short on food and charity ran dry.

 

He stood in the rain across the street from the bakery, his cloth hat clutched upside-down in his hands, and tried not to look obviously like he was begging for food because that was illegal. He walked up to everyone who looked to be entering the bakery, man or woman, alone or with their entire family, and asked with his head bowed, “Pardon, Monsieur, Madame, please purchase an extra loaf so my sister’s children can eat.”

 

The unpaved road was a patchwork of splattering mud and irregularly shaped pits pooled with rainwater, formed during the rain the days before, boot prints, hoof prints intersected crisscrossed lines incised into the ground by rotating wheels.  All the rain that should have come the last season seemed to pour down this season, months too late for the crop that needed it and endangering the current crop by flooding the inadequately drained fields owned by some in their commune. Though he kept his head low to avoid seeing the embarrassment and shame in some of the faces, the faces of those who wanted to help but could not, he saw it all anyway reflected in the pools of water in the ground.  Broken faces cut off at strange angles where the puddles turned into mud, ugly and distorted by waves from raindrops and splashes.  He remembered watching the mud splattered pant legs, the shoes frayed and worn through but still so much nicer than the wooden clogs on his feet; back then he dared to hope they understood that innocent children were starving and this would be enough for them to share something which few had enough of.

 

The afternoon was getting late. He crossed the street to stand next to the bakery, not bothering anymore to be discrete.  Traffic into the bakery became heavier with people who rushed directly from work to make a purchase before the end of business, and he started to stop everyone and ask everyone, “Madame, pardon, please purchase a bigger loaf and spare a piece –“ but it was no use.

 

In the end he saw the kind soul, the man who brought him along into the bakery the week before and allowed him to pick a loaf, hurry past without making eye contact.  Past the line of bread displayed prominently against the large windowpane the storeowner could be seen blowing out the lanterns.  The rush of people had thinned back down quickly to non-existent. Rain seeped through and dripped from his drenched his cloth cap, where a single sou piece sat at the bottom submerged in the water. 

 

That was when he wept.  He had nothing to bring home and he could not try again for days without risking the current crop.

 

He stood outside and watched the owner lock the front door.  Night descended across the land and soon the lantern hanging outside the bakery on both sides of the storefront window illuminated the loaves of bread until they appeared to be glowing against the dark background of the inside of the closed store. Each loaf bore the mark of the maker, each scored five times across its crust.  The few times he had been inside the store he noticed the lack of overnight bread, and he did not know where these loaves would end up. The owner definitely can’t just give the bread away here, because once it became known that the bread could be had for free, people would stop paying for it.  Perhaps the owner sent all the extra loaves to another commune and gave them away there.  It did not matter because either way the bread won’t go to him or Jeanne.

 

He remained on the street, dumbfounded. The seven children watched him expectantly from the far side of the windowpane, their round faces pressed against the glass. “Uncle Jean,” one asked, “May I eat something with my milk?”  They have not had undiluted milk enough times to know how little of what they were given was milk and how much was water.  They had named the first of Jeanne’s children after then rising painter Jacques-Louis David, whose name his father overheard being discussed by visiting merchants at the town square one day.  They did not necessarily hope for him to become a painter – none of them knew any painters personally. They wanted for his generation to have more choices in their journey through life; few children survived to adulthood and even if they did, the family farm could not provide for them all. He was the one they all hoped to be the first to break free from the ball-and-chain that was generational poverty. It was the same hope that every generation had for the generation to follow, and which was inevitably forgotten little by little amidst the trials of their daily survival. The loaves of bread of different shapes and sizes were all crafted by the same hands and each bore the identical mark of their maker.  The faces of the children, now a nondescript blur in his memory, should likewise be equal in the eyes of God. Valjean put his fist through the window and pulled that largest loaf to his chest, tucked it inside the front of his tattered coat where it could be kept relatively dry.

 

He ran.

 

It was still early in the evening and he was on a relatively busy street.  He should not have been surprised by the gendarme who, likely from hearing the shattered glass, seemed to materialize out of nowhere.  The gendarme chased him, and he instinctively began to flee, his stomach growling with hunger, until he found a large trash dump and tried to hide behind it.  He held his breath but his stomach was so loud that it led the gendarme right to him.

 

“Come out and hand it over.”  The gendarme spoke the order with little drama, as he pointed the business end of his cudgel centimeters from Valjean’s face. He crawled out two steps to the gendarme’s feet.  Tufts of graying beard protruded from the large shadow cast over this gendarme’s face by the large bicorne hat.  The enormity of all that was lost, the realization that Jeanne and her children will all die of starvation within a week dawned on him and he begged for mercy.    

 

“Please follow me home and let me give this to my sister’s children.  Pretend the bread was already eaten by the time you arrested me.”  Then they could have something in their stomachs and would have a chance to move away; maybe Jeanne could go find work somewhere.  He reached inside his jacket to feel for the loaf of bread, and this movement roused the stunned gendarme into action.

 

“Hands away from your pockets!” the gendarme yelled and gave a solid blow to his arm, “Show your hands!”  The loaf, stained with blood and peppered with glass shards, fell out of his coat and landed in a puddle with a splash.

 

“Follow me back to Faverolles,” he tried again, his hands dangling limply at his sides.  He was not able to finish his sentence; biting back the sobs that threatened to follow the tears was already too difficult.

 

The gendarme secured handcuffs to his wrists. “You came a long way to steal,” he said.  “Think of this as years of guaranteed work, years of guaranteed food and shelter. You will still be better off than many.” These words were complete lunacy to him for decades, until long after everything was over; until he came to accept that no one else in his family survived, as few in the commune did, and that he was sent to Toulon because the closer bagne at Cherbourg, Brest, and even Rochefort were already all filled to capacity by men who stole out of sheer desperation. Many of these men spent the years of poor harvests in the bagne, kept alive by King and country.

 

Javert would think this to be a gross injustice.

 

Valjean reached for and gently pulled on an end of the ribbon to untie the bow of Javert’s queue, then brushed away the hair that fell across Javert’s sunken cheek.  Javert stirred but did not wake.  He had not even muttered once about the lack of justice this entire time. Valjean did not know how many more nights of his gruesome shift Javert could last through, if the first one already took him to the point of collapse.  Valjean, still on the chair next to the bed, struggled to comprehend how it was possible for someone to be so close yet so unreachably far.  He knew he was likely to lose this man too.  

 

A respected business-owner and frequent churchgoer, he had been personally coached by the bishop of Montreuil on the acceptable ways to comfort children who were often bereft of hope.  Try to satisfy their material wants and needs through charitable donations, as any God-fearing Catholic should; explain to them that despite all appearances to the contrary God loved them as much as any other, and had blessed them with a guardian angel they could pray to for guidance and protection.  It was God’s form of justice, at least until each man, woman, and child experienced enough of the miscellaneous misfortunes in life to arrive at the conclusion that the guardian angels had all forsaken their duties.  A little girl memorably explained it to him this way: her guardian angel had gone out to play and was not listening.

 

But if Javert had a guardian angel, it must still be dutifully at his post.  How could the angel be less than the man he protected?  It could not be.  Valjean decided he would pray to this guardian angel in addition to God and Lady Justice tonight.

 

With the stationary Javert used to write his testimony only days ago, he wrote a brief note.  He reached inside the pocket of his coat to pull the crushed piece of bread from his pocket.  He left the note on the chair and set the bread on top of it, then quietly left to go back to the mairie.

 

-

 

A few minutes after the front door closed behind Valjean, Javert lifted himself up with his arms and rolled his eyes. When he saw the piece of bread and the note, he sat up and picked up both.  His eyes were watering and it took some effort to focus on the text.

 

_If only all guardian angels shared your unconditional devotion to duty and kept every man, woman, and child loved and protected, a good man would never need to break the law. I will pray for God to lead you to heaven, where you will find the justice you seek._

_Valjean_

 

The message was almost as difficult to comprehend as a gift of bread from a bread thief.  He went back to bed after putting both into his coat pocket for safekeeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The remaining chapters will be posted a bit slower, because making sure plot lines are resolved properly takes a lot of thought. In the meantime, please allow me to recommend a short ~2000 word chapter in the brick for your reading pleasure. If you are like me and came to this fandom from the musical (or possibly the recent movie) and have not read the brick, this is the moving and poetic, self-contained chapter where Hugo explains Jean Valjean's life from birth to his release from Toulon. There is a reason why few fanfics write flashbacks to Valjean's early life -- it is impossible to write it better than the original.
> 
> Volume I, Book II, Chapter VI: Jean Valjean: http://www.online-literature.com/victor_hugo/les_miserables/20/
> 
> \--
> 
> Info on Robert Surcouf, the joke is in the 'Quotes' section:  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Surcouf
> 
> Page on bagne from French wikipedia, readable through google translate:  
> http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bagne


	34. Chapter 34

“A piece of dried beef, Chief?” Platt asked.

 

He extended his arm towards the taciturn chief inspector, a piece of jerky protruding from his gloved hand.  When Javert did not react, he pleaded, “Please take it, my hand is freezing…”

 

Javert sighed and put the piece of beef into his mouth. What would normally have already been difficult for him to chew given his missing molars was now frozen into a single unyielding rigid mass.  It was clearly a losing proposition to attempt to chew through it with his front teeth – the effort expended in the process would exceed the nourishment which could be gained from the piece of beef.  He let it rest flat on his tongue.  Perhaps in a few minutes it will soften. 

 

He looked out of the corners of his eyes to the rustling of wool next to him.  Platt was watching him while rubbing his hands together and blowing warm breaths into them. “I have more, Chief, if you find it to your taste,” the younger man said. 

 

“That will not be necessary, inspector Platt,” said Javert, after he shifted the piece of jerky to one side of his mouth to free his tongue.

 

Javert could tell from Platt’s little smile that he was disappointed but undeterred.  When he received permission from Préfet Gisquet to lead this investigation personally, he lengthened his own shift while keeping everyone else on two separate four-hour shifts per day to respect the mayor’s wishes. In practice this meant that his two partners switched three times every night, alternating between two different pairs. Almost every single one of them attempted to offer him food or drink when they arrived for their shifts, whether it be a small piece of meat or some tea from the station, lukewarm by the time it was offered to him.  When he declined an offer, they simply gave him something else next time. Patience and persistence, a combination few can distinguish from stubbornness, were traits he valued highly in this line of work and so specifically selected for when he interviewed all potential hires.  It both amused and surprised him to see these personality traits demonstrated in abundance by everyone over the past few days. 

 

In Paris he was one of hundreds of inspectors in the service, one of dozens of his rank.  He considered himself unremarkable in the eyes of his superiors, and his efforts to keep all interaction with his colleagues professional meant that he never received this much attention before.  How could he be the unobtrusive observer he always strived to be with so many pairs of eyes on him all the time?  Javert wrapped his fingers around the piece of bread in his pocket, barely able to feel its bulk.  His fingertips were desensitized from the cold despite having spent the past ten minutes in the depths of the pocket.  Valjean clearly meant for him to eat the bread, even though he must have tired of actually asking him to because this was not mentioned in the incomprehensible note he also left behind.  The thought of that note gave Javert the urge to claw at the whiskers on his face, and if it were not too cold to remove his hands from his pockets he would have done so. He had already thought so much about Valjean’s message that he inadvertently memorized the entire thing, but why did Valjean suddenly mention guardian angels, something they never spoke about before?  Perhaps this was something Platt or Yvon would know about, because both of them requested to have Sunday mornings off-duty, presumably to attend mass.

 

“What is a guardian angel?” he asked without preamble. Yvon was startled by his voice but nonetheless managed to respond before Platt could finish chewing the piece of jerky in his mouth, “You mean the ones we pray to for moral guidance and protection?” 

 

Javert nodded his head.  The piece of beef in his mouth had become more pliable around the edges, and he chewed on it while listening to them speak.

 

“Why do you ask, did the priest talk to you about them?” Platt asked.  The priest had been quick to make use of the now safer streets to personally convince many in town to increase their attendance at church, and to spread the word about God to fresh faces. 

 

“No.  A friend told me that guardian angels failed in their duties.  What are their duties?” 

 

“There is supposedly a guardian angel for every person, and they have wings, so I imagine they hover around heaven and keep watch on their charges,” Platt explained through the puffs of condensation which emerged from his nose and mouth.  “I was taught that guardian angels may not choose to prevent all bad things from happening to us, but they will always do something to help.”

 

“And how are they punished when they fail?”

 

“Most of us stop believing that they exist at all instead of believing that they exist but failed in their duties. But since they are angels, they must be cast out of heaven if they fail.”

 

Javert thanked them for the information, even though it was not nearly as helpful as he had hoped.  Valjean’s thoughts remained a mystery to him, but he should stop being distracted while on duty.  There were only a couple more hours left before sunrise, with the smugglers still nowhere in sight.  The realization that in all likelihood he would need to spend tomorrow night this same way filled him with disappointment. 

 

Out here he felt more cold than wounded. Back when he lived alone the alternative would have been to spend the night at home and feel wounded rather than cold, but now Valjean provided a far more attractive alternative. Valjean made him feel warm and pain-free. Worse of all, Valjean wanted him to spend the nights at home. 

 

It would be a shame for them to stop speaking because of this disagreement over the Préfet’s order, such an inconsequential thing compared to all the harm he had done to Valjean, and that Valjean had somehow forgiven him for.  If he could justify a meal break for himself, he would go sit next to the bed while Valjean slept.  This was at least something he knew how to reciprocate, as opposed to the things Valjean did to him in bed. He needed to service Valjean twice in return, but he did not even know where to put his hand, and this was not the kind of thing he could ask for advice about or go practice on another man before he tried it on Valjean. 

 

Javert thought of Valjean’s uncontrollable laugher when he made the offer to service him twice.  Maybe Valjean knew how clueless he was.  He hoped that the man’s bottom was not as hairy as his head, because that would make an already bad situation even worse. But none of that mattered because he would not get a chance to do this until the conclusion of this case. The nature of the case required him to be on duty at night, when there were no places for him to go for a quick meal with a stop at home before he came back to the docks.  For now he could only see Valjean in the mairie, as a chief inspector and his mayor.  The meetings were kept professional and brief. 

 

“The service will often require you to make personal sacrifices without compensation.  Will you still commit to this?”  This was always the last question he asked before he offered to hire anyone, because he was asked this same question when he was granted the promotion out of Toulon decades ago.  It was true that the service demanded much of his time, but he never lacked personal time and so never counted it as a personal sacrifice – until recently.

 

-

 

At the break of dawn Javert slowly climbed the gentle slope up from the docks to the upper town, and to the station house. Yvon and Platt still had just under another hour before the end of their second four-hour shift of the day and stayed behind at the docks.

 

As he pushed open the double doors, he heard boisterous laughter and smelled the distinctive pungent odor of onions.

 

“… misaimed the handcuffs and toppled a lamppost…” Beauregard was in the middle of his sentence when the men crowded around the stove noticed his return and greeted him.  After Dupont, Marion, and Faure had gone, Platt was the only one left from before Javert’s arrival in town.  Now, with the obvious exception of Javert, everyone in the department were young men in their twenties, all eager to do well and seemed to genuinely enjoy each other’s company.  This felt like a good development to Javert, even though this friendly atmosphere was yet another way in which this department differed from the one in Paris.

 

Beauregard traded a look with Rousset before speaking up again, “Chief, I was just telling everyone about how Rousset was too lazy to cross the river with us to practice with his handcuffs on trees in the forest as Monsieur le maire suggested.  He practiced on the lampposts along the docks instead, and when he mistakenly struck one with his handcuffs it cracked and snapped in half. Thankfully Monsieur le maire was very forgiving.”

 

Javert joined them at the stove, where he sat every day between when he returned from his shift to when he had to leave for his meeting with Leblanc.  “Even though Monsieur le maire had forgiven you, do not do it again.  What did the mayor say?”

 

Rousset blushed and lowered his head.  “Monsieur le maire urged me to slow down and have better aim when securing handcuffs on someone's arm, then complimented me for creative use of everyday objects for practice.  He said the nicest thing – he told me that I reminded him of you,” he said softly, still in awe and disbelief that this had happened.  Javert did not know what to say to this, so he asked to see what the men were crowding around.

 

A large covered pot, presumably containing onion soup, sat on the bench nestled against the stove.  Two stacks of empty bowls, one clean and the other clearly used, sat on the bench next to the pot.  A basket of bread occupied the part of the bench he normally sat, close enough to the stove for warmth but far enough away that he would not accidentally singe the sleeve of his greatcoat while writing his report.

 

“The innkeeper sent someone to deliver this, and asked for the time when you are expected back so he could come speak to you in person…” Before Rousset could finish his sentence, the innkeeper entered through the double doors and walked right up to Javert amidst exclamations of, “Ah, here he is!”

 

“Monsieur le inspecteur!” the innkeeper said with excessive cheeriness, “Good day today, isn’t it?” 

 

Javert frowned.  Why did the innkeeper deliver a pot of soup for no reason? Did he expect to be paid for it? “Yes, good day,” he said gruffly, just enough of a response to be considered civil.  But the innkeeper must have dealt with many more grouchy customers on a regular basis because he kept speaking with undiminished enthusiasm, as if the negativity bounced right off of him.  He produced a formally sealed note from his pocket. “Monsieur l’inspecteur, the soup and bread have all been paid for by the esteemed Monsieur le maire. He also asked me to deliver this note.”

 

While he opened and read the note, the innkeeper continued to explain effusively, “The mayor gave me a contract to cater food to the station, and paid me in advance so I could hire a dedicated delivery driver and buy a horse-cart.  Now the inn can make deliveries!”

 

_Javert,_

_The town would go bankrupt if I paid each of you every Franc you deserved to be paid, but it can afford to supplement your base pay with unlimited free food at the station. I will be checking your breath at the meeting so eat the soup or ask the innkeeper for a raw onion. Have your men tell the innkeeper what they would like delivered, and make sure there will be enough food for any victims of crimes who may spend time at the station._

_Leblanc_

 

He half-heartedly listened as the innkeeper beseeched all men present to spread the word on his new delivery service. Lower on the piece of paper, a few lines were added later in a more hurried hand.

 

_The innkeeper asked for three Francs per week and promised to put meat in the soup. Please eat the soup even if he swindled me._

 

Javert carefully refolded the note along the crease and returned it to the envelope, the frown completely gone from his face. For reasons even he did not understand, he did not feel enraged by the prospect that this innkeeper had swindled the mayor.  Many little things in the day seem inexplicably more amusing now.  It must be due to his sleep deprivation, he thought, as he walked over to the steaming pot and lifted the lid.  Seven fish heads stared back at him with their lifeless, glassy eyes; their jaws slack and mouths wide open as if their dying thought was one of incredulity -- that they were being killed to go into a pot of onion soup.

 

Javert stared back at the fish. It took him a moment to overcome the shock, his brain sluggish at the end of the long day.  “What kind of onion soup is this?” he asked of the innkeeper. “Who puts fish into onion soup instead of beef stock?”

 

The innkeeper wrung his hands, a classic indication of guilt which spoke volumes to Javert, volumes that he would not have been able to glimpse from the masterfully evasive response that actually came out of the innkeeper’s mouth,  “Monsieur le maire asked for meat in the soup, but he stopped by so late last night that we couldn’t go buy beef.  Fish is the best kind of meat, isn’t it Monsieur l’inspecteur?”

 

He did not have much time left before he had to show up at the mairie for the meeting, and he still had to eat some of the soup before he could begin to read the reports left by the shift commanders. The other men clearly did not object to the soup because they ate it, and Valjean did not cancel the contract despite his rightfully placed suspicion.  So when Rousset offered him a bowl of the soup, he accepted it and dismissed the innkeeper with a promise to let him know how much food to deliver the next day. 

 

He sat down on the bench with the bowl of soup in his lap and crumbled the piece of bread he had carried into his pocket into it. The piece of bread was much smaller now; a lot of it had broken off in little pieces of crumbs in his pocket from how much he handled it during the night.  He finished the bowl then checked the smell of his own breath by breathing into a hand cupped over his nose and mouth. 

 

Good enough.

 

The warm soup in his stomach made him drowsy. As he struggled to keep his eyes open while he read through the reports, his thoughts drifted away from domestic disputes and drunken brawls and robberies.  He could only think of one thing.  Valjean would be able to tell how tired he was.  Valjean won’t allow the meeting to last longer than five minutes.

 

-

 

In truth, Javert may have been wrong about the length of the meeting.  He did not know how long it lasted because he only remembered moments from it.

 

He walked into the office, swaying on his feet and with his eyes already half lidded.  After noticing that Valjean was still using the same broken desk, he offered to fix it. Not at all surprisingly, Valjean said no.

 

Then the next thing Javert remembered was a fleeting moment of half-consciousness when he startled awake in Valjean’s embrace, unable to comprehend what was happening but was immediately calmed by the man’s warmth and the sensation of a pair of hands pressed against his back. His face rested on Valjean’s shoulder and in that moment he could not summon the self-control to step away from the mayor.  Instead, he blurted out, “my le –“, the first two syllables of what he wanted to say, “My legs are aching.”

 

Valjean did not seem to have heard these words which were spoken into his shoulder.  Javert remembered the order for him to go home.    

 

-

 

Valjean sat in his factory with a copy of the book of hymns by Saint Louis de Montfort tucked under one arm. Earlier in the afternoon he had successfully negotiated a contract with some American merchants, after showing them the few facetted beads he made during the previous night. They ordered two crates of five hundred beads each, per month.  He had slightly exaggerated his workers’ production rate on the work-intensive facetted beads during the negotiation, and it became an urgent matter for him to teach his workers how to make the beads.  He went to the factory immediately at the end of the one remaining meeting on his schedule, without even bothering to stop by home.

 

He personally demonstrated the process and observed as they each gave it a try before they took a short break for a late dinner together.  It was now late in the evening, far later than his workers’ normal work hours, but every one of them were still working tirelessly.  They were finally good enough at the lengthy process to feel that their successes came from skill as well as luck, even though their success rates were still quite low.  They were ecstatic and no longer required Valjean’s constant attention.

 

Valjean sat on a wood stool in a corner and opened the book in his lap.  Not far away from him, on a small section of the first floor where it wrapped around a wall, and which was kept free of glass shards by virtue of a short ledge which divided it from the rest of the factory floor, most of the children were engaged in play. His requests the night before to Javert’s guardian angel sounded insincere to his own ears because he had stopped believing in their existence decades ago.  It was simply not an option to stop the prayers, so he found a copy of a guardian angel hymn to recite for this night.  At least he would recite words written by a saintly man who did not lack for belief – Montfort firmly believed he had met his guardian angel in life.

 

Of the over five hundred hymns in this thick tome, only one was addressed to a guardian angel.  He only had the time to confirm that this was listed in the table of contents, and not to read the actual text until now.  He flipped to the listed page.

 

"How blessed I am to have ever at my side an angel as my guardian. He is a prince of paradise, a favorite of God, the terror of his enemies, one of the pure spirits not of this earth."  He read through the hymn slowly under his breath, repeating the phrases in an attempt to memorize it.  "He chooses to be himself my guardian, to strengthen my weakness; for he forms me, leads me, admonishes me and warns me, protecting me silently as the enemy who beguiles me loses all his cunning.” As he read he tried to visualize this guardian angel so he could believe its existence – but though the description did not fit Javert perfectly, he could not imagine a being closer to the description than a strange picture of Javert with a pair of angel wings. His thoughts were blasphemous – how could he equate an angel with the mortal man he was tasked to protect? But what was he to do if that was what his mind could visualize?  He decided take his mind away from this for a moment to check on the progress of the workers.

 

He closed the tome and stood up.  As he turned to put the book on the stool, he caught sight of the children at play. Victor stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his legs wide apart, as some of the younger boys drove crudely carved wooden boats along the ground between his legs.

 

“Are you a bridge, Victor?” he could not help but ask. “There are many along the Seine in Paris, but unfortunately none here in Montreuil.”

 

“No!  I am a giant statue of you!” Victor declared, and Valjean heard a smattering of unhappy sounds.  “Victor!” a little boy squealed, “Statues do not speak!”

 

Victor made a face at the boy. “Then pretend you couldn’t hear me! I must respond to Monsieur Leblanc.” The little boy frowned but then went back to driving his boat.

 

Valjean smiled.  He stepped over the ledge into the play area and squatted down next to Victor’s side, careful to remain as out of the way of the flow of traffic as possible.  He need not have cared though, because as soon as he came close, the boys stopped their play and crowded around him.  Soon the few girls who were playing with their dolls came over too.  Confronted with two small children who both came at him with extended arms, he wrapped an arm around each waist and pulled them close. They giggled into his hair and returned his embrace by putting their little arms around his neck. His gentle nature won the children over since the first day, and this reaction by them was already far more restrained than the first days when they climbed all over him, which presented a problem because he had a fresh stab wound then.

 

And he could not think of that stabbing without recalling a vague vision of Javert leaping off his horse, the capes of his coat spread majestically like a wing in flight.  He kissed the foreheads of both the little boy and the little girl in his arms, and gave in when a child obscured from his view expressed his impatience by tugging on his fingers.  He let go of the first two children and allowed two others their turn. In front of him, Victor had decided that there was no need for him to continue playing his role anymore if no one else was playing.

 

“Monsieur Leblanc,” Victor asked, “what is that book you were reading?”

 

Valjean remembered that Victor’s mother, Madame Allard, had called him her guardian angel when he first hired her off the street. He wanted to know whether a child as young as Victor could see past his obviously difficult childhood and still believe in his guardian angel.  Victor was covered in mud that first time Valjean saw him, and left mud on his coat. A lot of these children were haggard and dirty.  Now all of them were dressed in new clothes their mothers bought for them with their first paycheck, and they ate well.  They were free to be children once again. 

 

“This is the book of hymns by Louis de Montfort – I was looking for the hymn to use to pray to a friend’s guardian angel. I can’t imagine what that guardian angel would look like.  Can you help me by describing to me what yours looks like?”

 

Victor furrowed his brows in confusion. “But you are my guardian angel, so he looks like you,” he said.

 

“Why do you believe it is me? Why a man and not an angel somewhere in heaven?”

 

“You keep us safe by giving us a house to stay in at night.  It was dark and I was scared out on the street.”

 

This was not the direction he wanted the conversation to go, so he did not ask further.  “Victor, sometimes people can break into houses so the house alone does not keep you completely safe,” Valjean explained calmly.  It was a harsh truth that should not surprise any child who spent nights out on the streets; nevertheless, he did not wish to frighten Victor or any of the other children who were listening.  “There are policemen who stand outside each night to make sure we are all safe in our houses,” he assured them, “you should be grateful to them too.”

 

“Yes, like the chief inspector you helped down the stairs that night.”

 

“Yes Victor, like him.”

 

“Why does he frown all the time?  Is it because he has to stand outside and he is afraid of the dark?”

 

Valjean chuckled at this question. “No,” he answered, without offering Victor an explanation because he honestly did not know why Javert frowned all the time either.

 

If providing housing and pay in exchange for full-time work was enough qualify someone as a guardian angel, Javert would qualify without a doubt.  But does that mean Javert has no guardian angel for protection?  Does that mean Javert’s life was in the hands of God, who had given much to him but have also taken much from him? 

 

Valjean sorted a few errant strands of hair away from where they fell across the face of the little girl he held in his arm. He loved these children and felt loved by them in return.  He wished to watch them grow and get to know them as the adults they will become. But there will forever be a part of himself he must keep from them, and even if he did explain everything to any of them as he did to Cosette and Marius, they could not begin to understand without having spent years in the Bagne.  Javert was the only one who knew enough of the history to understand. A line in the hymn kept replaying in his mind, "My holy guardian angel, I want to entrust to you my happiness."  He lowered his face, the most he could do to hide his moist eyes from the children all around him.

 

“Monsieur Leblanc?”

 

“It is alright, I got some of the sand in my eye,” Valjean whispered. “I am fine.  Go back to play now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be good. Please stay tuned.
> 
> \--
> 
> Hymns of Saint Louis de Montfort, guardian angel hymn is #121:  
> http://www.montfort.org/content/uploads/pdf/PDF_EN_85_1.pdf


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to Groucha, who must have read through at least three different drafts of this chapter over the past month.
> 
> While writing this chapter I moved myself to tears. I hope at least some of the emotion comes across to you also while you read this.

“You know, this afternoon I woke up thinking to myself, ‘wouldn’t it be nice if the guardian angel of this town agreed with us that the smugglers should be punished?  He can probably strike down the smuggler’s boat while it crossed the Channel,’” said Platt towards the river.  It was unclear from his body language which of the two others present he was speaking to.

 

The docks had been cleared of all drug addicts, and once news of the recent incident within the police reached all ears in town with the speed of a wild fire, normal townsfolk avoided the docks at night like the plague. Now it was eerily empty. Aside from a large flock of migratory birds, the three of them had seen few signs of life over the past few hours.

 

“That would not be a good thing,” Yvon replied. “A boat sunken in the Channel would not leave a trace, so we would never know to stop waiting for them here.”

 

They paced up and down the northern end of the docks slowly, staying in motion to keep warm.  Javert stopped walking where he was, a few paces behind Platt and Yvon, and rubbed at his thighs with his gloved hands still in his pockets.

 

“Yes, I thought of that," said Platt. "And we will fine them according to the value of their smuggled goods, so if they drop half of their cargo into the Channel that would be a bad thing too.”

 

With everyone present serving on the night shift, the few topics for casual conversation were quickly exhausted, so the conversation naturally shifted to work.  Javert understood this and tolerated these demoralizing comments. They were the truth. The plan in his mind was simply to be present when the smugglers showed up, and either arrest them immediately or observe where they go to cook the opium.

 

Javert reflexively looked up at the stars for strength, even though he could no longer see the stars without also seeing the lantern light, and therefore remembering the hellish fire and the falling angel. He did the best he could to ignore the pain in his thighs and caught up to Yvon and Platt, just in time to catch a mutter of “Merde!  It’s the fog again.”

 

In the early morning hours sometimes a dense freezing fog formed in the marshlands up north will blow down the river and accumulate against the ramparts.  There it will take hours to slowly drift around the walls.

 

They make their way into a tight alley for some shelter against the cold. 

 

These docks on the sandy marshland along the near bank of the Canche was lined by dilapidated, sprawling warehouses leftover from the better times it had seen during Madeleine’s tenure as mayor. As merchants stopped at these docks to both buy from and sell to Madeleine’s rosary factory, a wide variety of businesses opened to trade with them, which then attracted ever more merchants. Madeleine had almost single-handedly placed Montreuil on the map as a port town, and by the time of his arrest these docks had just begun to see some of the large vessels that traveled the long-established route between London and Calais. Every night, during some of the quiet moments in his shift, Javert could close his eyes and see the buildings all around him in their former glory, newly built by construction workers paid to work overtime so they would be ready in time to hold all the cargo coming off the merchant boats day and night.  Filled with crates and crates of everything from fine textiles out of English mills on their way to America, to tea and silk from Chine awaiting their departure to England.  This was a memory only Valjean, and no other living soul in this town, shared with him. The change was so dramatic that none of the younger men on the night shift with him could understand when he explained what was at stake. 

 

To him it was simple.  He robbed the town of its mayor, and the mayor of his town. The mayor was the same man, changed only by the inevitable march of time.  Stolen time could not be returned, no matter what he did. The town was also no longer the same. The people who had moved away could not be returned, but the prosperity of the town itself could be returned. He was upholding a higher law, which in this case was happily aligned with his duty to the service. Clear the town of the influence of opium, open up the docks for legitimate activity and allow the addicts to regain control of their lives so they could serve the town in their own ways.

 

He would stand here for as long as it took, but he hoped that Valjean prayed for the smugglers to come soon. His body could not endure many more nights of this punishing schedule.     

 

-

 

They stood close together for warmth.   By the time Javert heard faint sound of voices, their eyes were watering and the moisture was freezing at the corners of their eyes.

 

Javert gestured for silence.

 

“… watch lanterns…”

 

“Getting too close… now, turn!”

 

“They could not possibly be standing out here in this bloody fog!  Billy you are brilliant!”

 

“And even if they did, they could not see us in it!”

 

“Hush – stop yelling, they would be able to hear you even if they can’t see you!”

 

“...you knew once you confirmed reports of the lanterns lighting the river that we will be able to navigate it safely even in heavy fog.”

 

“Shh.  Stop talking and help us get everything inside, then you will have hours to talk all you want.”

 

Javert lead the inspectors to slowly close on the voices with their backs pressed against the side of buildings. Eventually they got close enough to see faint shapes of men in the parts of the fog where the lanterns lit up. They watched as the line of men walked back and forth carrying crates.  There were five of them, too many for the three of them to arrest in this limited visibility.  He had the map of all the buildings in his head.  There was only one door near where they went inside, only one warehouse. Madeleine’s warehouse, the one that dwarfed them all.

 

They waited until all of the smugglers entered the warehouse, and listened for the heavy door to close. Then they quietly backed away from the warehouse to make sure they were out of hearing range.

 

“How many crates did you count?” Javert asked. He counted twelve, but he did not fully trust the number given his mind’s recent tendency to become distracted.

 

“Eleven.”

 

“... I only counted the men, not the crates…”

 

Eleven or Twelve, this was a larger amount of opium than what he expected them to be able to sell here.  “This is too much value for them to leave without at least someone to watch it.  They will likely cook the opium here.  We will assault with full strength tomorrow evening.”

 

“Chief, you should go rest.  We can keep watch on the warehouse until the assault,” Yvon said, then added softly, “You’ve been out here a long time.”

 

There were no longer enough reasons for him to stay, and so Javert did not for even a single second more than necessary. He ordered Platt to go communicate the new development to the man at the station house then slowly made his way home.

 

His horse watched him pass by forlornly. He’d left it tied just inside the ramparts, hoping that he could ride north on it again at the end of his shift even though he fell the night before.  He was certain he could not even successfully mount the horse now.

 

“I need to be somewhere and cannot take you, but Inspector Platt will lead you to the stable soon,” he told the horse as he combed through its mane with his fingers.  Perhaps the horse understood, because it gave him a nudge to hurry him along.

 

-

Javert’s hands, numb and shaking, stabbed the key against the body of the lock twice before successfully inserting it into the keyhole.  He knew Valjean woke to almost any perceptible sound or movement -- they had unintentionally woken each other many times during the nights when they shared a bed – and he would frighten the man less if he announced his presence.

 

“Valjean?” he called, to no response.

 

There was no warmth in the house. His eyes yet to adjust from the brightly lit street, he extended his arms and tried to feel his way along the wall in the complete darkness.  He made his way through the dining area and into the bedroom, leaning against various pieces of furniture for support because his legs buckled seemingly with every single step.

 

“Valjean?”

 

It was a professional habit for him to be fully aware of his surroundings and he had the layout of their house memorized in units of his own paces, but either his memory or his steps, or both, was failing him. His shin struck the side of the bed frame heavily and he grit his teeth against the pain as he pitched forward face-first across the mattress.  It was empty.

 

It was also cold.  No one had slept in this bed for at least the past hour.

 

Valjean was not here and he had no idea where else Valjean could be in the middle of the night.

 

Since when did he, the man who volunteered for all the shifts no one else would take for pay, the inspector who was proud to remain in the room when all fathers and husbands were excused from particularly risky operations – when did he, inspector Javert, grow so comfortable with another that he wished to go home to them?   And why should he deserve Valjean’s love when he spent so much time watching for the smugglers that he knew where exactly they had been and will be for hours, but had not the slightest idea of what Valjean had been doing for the past three days?

 

No assaults happened at the docks tonight. He knew that.  Valjean was unlikely to have been robbed and left to die in a similar situation to what happened the last time.  The vast majority of thefts and robberies in the town were committed by drug addicts desperate for money to sustain their habit, and with most of them undergoing treatment at the field hospital the town was much safer. But this knowledge did little to alleviate his fears.  The men who assaulted Valjean were never found and could still be in the town.

 

Maybe someone in town had an emergency in the middle of the night and came to Valjean for help, and he agreed instead of directing them to the police for assistance.  That would be too blindly trusting of strangers, that would be just like Valjean, and that would be a case where Valjean would leave a note if he expected to be gone for long.  He patted blindly across the top of the nightstand until he found Valjean’s set of silver candlesticks and searched around the base of both for a note tucked underneath. There was nothing.

 

_Be thorough._

His mind raced ahead of his body, which was slowed by vertigo.  There was no doubt that if he could see what was in front of him, he would see it spinning. He searched across the top of the nightstand again.  His Legion d’honneur medal was the only object there aside from the pair of candlesticks.

_Be more thorough._

 

It was a mighty struggle to back away from the bed, and he lost most of the hard-earned progress when he collapsed onto his knees and had to rest his forehead back onto the bed to regain his bearings. He needed to do a visual search, and for that he must light a fire. 

 

He scoured his pants pockets to confirm that he still had the tinderbox left inside his repaired uniform pants by either the worker who did the sewing or Valjean himself.  Then he crawled on his hands and knees to the fireplace and lit one end of a thin kindling to wield as a makeshift torch.  With his elbow rested on the mattress and arm at full stretch to place the light as close to the nightstand as possible, he confirmed that there was no note.  The only two other places he knew Valjean would spend time at were the mairie and the factory. He would not be able to travel to both locations himself, but with Herculean effort he could get to the police station and ask someone else to check on his behalf.

 

He made his way back out of the bedroom. The flickering light of the torch did little to aide his hazy and spinning vision, instead slowing his progress even further because he had to avoid getting that arm too close to the wall for fear of setting a piece of wooden furniture on fire.  He kept the torch extended toward the open dining area while he shuffled his way to the exit, his back and his wounded, aching arm pressed against the vertical wall or possibly cabinet door.

 

The grand wooden desk of the mayor’s office rose out of the misty haze in front of him, surrounded by various cupboards. Four dining chairs were arranged neatly around the desk, one facing each of its sides.  The light of the torch wavered with the movement of his shaking arm and he was forced to remove his weak arm from the wall so he could hold onto the torch with both hands; still, the lighting was not stable enough for him to take a good look.  In the periphery of his vision his sleeve seemed to be sagging and clinging to his forearm. Maybe his wound re-opened and left a blood trail all over the walls, or maybe the sleeves were simply more damp than the rest of his clothes from the freezing fog that crept up his sleeves and down his collar for hours. 

 

He moved away from the relative safety of the wall and approached the desk while waving his torch at the mist ahead of him, hoping that the light would chase away what could only be a hallucination.

 

The top of the desk sparkled before his eyes. He dragged his feet closer.

 

A book lay on the desk, opened to its familiar yet embarrassing title page that he had not laid eyes on for years. Lettered by hand in a regal font, this page also contained a dignified illustration of the vessel of Paris that a young child vandalized to resolve the greatest mystery in his world: his favorite book taught people how to act but had no pictures of people in it.

 

How could this be?  So the child drew in guardsmen and a starry night sky, and tried his best to make everything look like they were part of the original illustration. Now this night sky sparkled as if the stars materialized out of the page to provide guidance in this moment of darkness and despair.  A handful more lay strewn haphazardly on the desk around the book, overflowed from the page.

 

Javert tried to take a step to the closest star so he could touch it with his hand.  The toe of his boot struck the ground and with neither of his arms available to shield his body from the impact he fell hard against the table. 

 

One leg of the desk rocked against his back, and the torch lay on the wood floor next to him, its flame thankfully mostly extinguished by the drop but still more than sufficient to set the floor on fire. Unable to move his feet to stomp out the fire and with no time to hesitate, he crawled on top of the piece of wood in an attempt to smother the fire with his damp coat in his last conscious act. Stars rained down from the rocking desk and shattered against the floor into tiny shards.  He closed his eyes. 

 

-

 

Where his body failed his mind stepped up. He wandered through a field of mist in search for Valjean.  He traveled ahead in a straight line, with no memory or understanding of why ‘ahead’ was the correct direction and with no sense of time.

 

Eventually a towering white gate blocked his way. He threaded his arms between the pristine bars, a tight fit, and pressed his face against it to look through. On the other side faint shadows of men hovered under a clear sky. 

 

He pulled his Legion d’honneur medal out from his pant pocket and knocked on the gate with this star-shaped medal in his hand. It clanged against the bars, metal against metal.  “I am Inspector Javert, requesting entry to search for a missing man,” he declared.

 

The gates swung open to reveal a sword-bearing angel with great wings.  Javert recognized it as the one depicted on one side of the Arc de Triomphe next to his post once. It must have been during one of the annual parades on Bastille Day.  The angel kept his sword pointed towards the ground, in Javert’s estimation the least threatening stance possible for a sword that could not be sheathed, and gestured for the medal with an outstretched hand. Javert surrendered the medal for examination.

 

“Honneur et patrie,” recited the angel from the inscription. “Why does this allow you to enter?” he questioned. “This medal says you have served your fatherland with honor.  Where is your fatherland, where is your home, Inspector Javert?”

 

“I never belonged anywhere,” Javert answered with complete honesty.  “I do not know of a home, and I failed to serve with honor.”

 

“I only allow people into heaven to find their homes,” the angel told him.  “If you have no idea what that is, why should I allow you into heaven?” he asked, then patiently waited for a visibly distressed Javert to respond.

 

“A man is missing.  I only wish to personally confirm that he is indeed inside and safe. You may send along an escort if you do not trust me to leave your premises after completion of the task.”

 

“You may enter,” the angel declared. It vanished without a trace and Javert was finally able to take in a clear view of what was ahead of him. The blazing sun illuminated the huge open field, misty but otherwise unobstructed, and his visibility was only limited by his own eyes.  Javert closed the gate and continued forward. As he walked he passed many pairs of people, always a seemingly regular man, woman, or child standing with a hovering angel over their shoulder.  Though his legs ached, he walked up to each man and checked their faces carefully.

 

Valjean was not in this field.

 

Javert kept walking ahead, out of the field and out of the direct sunlight.  The mist grew cold and the sky grew dark.  He kept walking.

 

Eventually, he saw a dense gray plume of smoke rise out of the horizon directly ahead of him, all the way into the sky.

 

When he got close enough to see the ground underneath the plume of smoke, he discovered that it was a red-hot furnace which lit the surrounding mist to a dull orange.  More details appeared as he closed the distance.  A large mound, piled almost waist-high next to the furnace, sparkled with a yellow-white glow.  Javert saw that three people sat there.

 

“Valjean?” he yelled, “Valjean?”

 

The bearded man seated on a mound of stars turned at the voice and smiled, his hair and beard both glowing white in the starlight.

 

_I found you._

_I found you._

Cosette got up from where she sat on a bench near the furnace, a winged Marius hovering over her shoulder, and walked over to him before he could reach Valjean. “We were just about to leave,” she told him. “Marius wanted to go hover in the field.” Valjean waved goodbye to them and climbed down from the mound.

 

Javert let his head drop to his chest in the comforting warmth of the furnace.  He held his open hands up in front of him as Valjean patted him down starting from the top of his head.  “I don’t have weapons on me,” Javert said.  “I am not here to arrest you.”  He rested his head on Valjean’s shoulder and obediently lifted his arms away from his torso when Valjean unbuttoned his greatcoat.  The fire in the furnace crackled and hissed, quickly becoming hotter as Valjean frantically patted down his torso and then down his legs.   It warmed his face and spit out sparks which narrowly missed his whiskers.  “I did not bring any weapons,” Javert insisted, his mouth pressed against Valjean’s shoulder. “The angel at the gate would not have let me through if I did.” Valjean did not respond; he browsed through the contents of Javert’s pants pockets individually and showed no interest in any item except for the medal.  The gilt and enamel coated medal reflected the light as he turned it over in his hands.  It must have been a good enough star, because after this examination Valjean tossed it onto the mound instead of returning it to Javert.

 

At last, Valjean seemed satisfied. He straightened Javert’s uniform where it bunched up around the shoulders then closed his hand around Javert’s forearm.  With this painfully tight grip Valjean lead Javert up the mound of stars and took a seat. Javert joined him. With his back to the furnace, Valjean laid his hands in his lap and looked out over an endless dark field pensively, the smile on his face distant and tinged with a profound sadness.

 

“Why are you here all alone?” Javert asked.

 

“God asked me to make stars each night for an angel to collect and place in the sky,” Valjean explained. “At first when no one came I thought it was because I did not make the stars sparkle,” he said, and opened his hand to show a regular round bead rolling lazily around his palm. It had a muted, dull glow instead of a star’s brilliant sparkle.

 

“Yes, this is a bead and those are stars,” Javert responded.  “They are completely different things.”  Valjean smiled, the professional and distant smile of Monsieur le maire Leblanc, and continued, “But I am certain I made them correctly for the past three nights and still no angel came.  The stars were left in this pile while the sky was dark.”

 

Javert looked down at the mound and could not see anything wrong with the stars, at least the tiny fraction of visible ones on top. True, they had some size variation and the facets on each were unique, but that was unavoidable for anything made by hand.  They were beautiful and perfect to him and it saddened him that they were abandoned. “Maybe your angel did not come for you because you broke parole,” he said.

 

Next to him, Valjean tensed at his words but did not disagree.  “Yes, that must be the case,” Valjean said.  “The sun had already set tonight and the angel did not come.  I think I should to go toss the stars onto the field even though I only have a vague idea of where they should go.”  Valjean’s hand was still clamped onto Javert’s forearm, and when he stood up to leave Javert refused.  “No!” he said as he pulled the man back with his arm, “What if you put the stars in the wrong places?”

 

“It is better to try and be a little wrong than to idle here and leave the nights dark.  We must see the duty ahead of us and do the best we can.  That is all God asks of us.”  Valjean replied.  He let go of Javert’s arm and stood up, sending a few stars tumbling down the hill. “Come with me,” he said, and Javert obeyed. 

 

Valjean picked up a large empty wooden bucket and tipped it against the mound of stars, then began shoveling stars into it by the handful.  Javert dug in with the fingers of one hand to help.  His felt a phantom pressure on his other arm and could not figure out what was wrong with it. They filled the bucket until it could hold no more – by then they’ve used up most of the mound – and together they set out into the darkness.

 

Javert trailed behind as Valjean lead the way, a lonely figure walking with a slight limp and with the giant bucket swinging in his hand.  Stars spilled out of the bucket and into the mist, emitting sounds reminiscent of raindrops pelting the folding roof of a fiacre.  Javert kept his eyes on the ground to avoid stepping on any of the fallen stars, visible only as a faint haze of light in the mist.

 

Valjean stopped and pointed at a part of the ground that to Javert was identical to any other in the vast field. “I think some stars need to go here,” Valjean whispered.  He reached into the bucket and sprinkled a handful of stars onto the ground. These did not roll and scatter randomly upon landing; instead they floated near the top of the mist and glowing lines extended from them to form the outlines of a constellation. Javert saw that this was Microscopium, an extremely dim constellation vivid in his memory for the sheer number of hours he once spent trying to spot it in the night sky.

 

He only saw it twice, on two fall nights following days so structured and virtually indistinguishable that they exist in his memory only as miniscule fractions of more than a decade.  In those younger years he stood atop the parapet overlooking the port of Toulon each night and lifted his eyes to the heavens above the boundless Mediterranean Sea.  The dark sea in front of him was a bustle of activity with ships and boats in constant motion, traveling to places he had never seen.

 

Older guards told him that those waters stretched far beyond the horizon in each direction and that far to the southeast, a Colossus once stood more than a thousand years ago until a mighty earthquake brought him down to his knees.  Far beyond the island of Rhodes where he stood, almost along the same straight line, a gargantuan lighthouse at Alexandria illuminated the opposite shore for more than a thousand years, a constant bright light in the darkness, until it also succumbed to earthquakes.  Both the Colossus and the lighthouse were left to lay in ruins for centuries, and he wondered whether in those faraway lands men where laboring to rebuild them while stars moved across the sky through the night. Those nights, he pulled his uniform tight across his chest to combat the cool wind which crept up the loose sleeves of his uniform, and he was glad that in a world with only two types of men, he wore the blue of the guards and not the red of the convicts. Those nights he saw the faint stars of Microscopium rise then fall through the horizon.

 

And Javert left this constellation behind because Valjean had moved on; the man in front tossed more stars onto the ground, not bothering to take aim and only slowing down to adjust the positions of a few of them with his shoe.  “This one is called Orion,” he said of his handiwork.

 

The mythical Greek hunter Orion, wearing a belt formed by three of the brightest stars in the sky, was one of the most prominent constellations and frequently the only one fully visible beyond the streetlights and coal smoke above Paris.  He took aim at his eternal prey, the scorpion, with his trusty bow fully drawn. Unfortunately for him, two stars in his bow were tragically misplaced and he was about to send an arrow backwards into his own face.

 

Javert’s jaw dropped.  Did Valjean not even have the minimal understanding of this constellation to notice that he had the bow flipped? “Why do you always do inexplicable things, Valjean?” he asked rhetorically as he crouched down, exasperated, and gently nudged the stars back into place by poking at them with the tip of his index finger.  The glowing, sparkling orbs felt cold and rigid against his finger. 

 

After he was done he looked up to see that Valjean had already left another bunch of stars ahead.  “Slow down!  You are getting them wrong!” Javert cried.

 

“I am sorry, but the stars are already late.” Valjean’s voice floated back to him, wavering in the ebb and flow of the mist.  “We should place all the stars first before we try to fix them.”

 

“What – no!  No!” Javert tried to stop the quickly moving man ahead of him, but he was too short of breath for his voice to carry.  He had no option but to follow.  The stars traced out wide glowing arcs in the field as each patrolled their celestial orbit to the beats of their own drums, disappearing and reappearing with earth’s many ephemeral seasons.  Valjean remained a constant presence throughout, never straying more than a few paces away.  Javert wished to keep this man safe for many more such seasons so he could continue to be blessed with this man’s presence.

 

They must have traveled a great distance but as nothing lay ahead aside from mist, there was nothing to measure distance against. Javert glanced back over his shoulder for the great smoke plume, but it had vanished.  He saw only a boundless field of stars.

“Something must be wrong with Gemini – what is it, Javert?” 

 

Javert turned from the breathtaking view when he heard the distressed call.  Valjean was on his knees in front of a group of stars, waist-deep in mist, as he repositioned the stars with hurried and agitated movements.  Javert got down to one knee to take a look. What Valjean claimed to be Gemini, the twin angels who held hands, was correct except it was short one critical star. The result was so baffling it made Javert claw at the whiskers on his face in absolute horror. “Mon Dieu -- you put Pollux though the guillotine!” he exclaimed, shaking fistfuls of detached whiskers for emphasis.  “Give Pollux his head back!”

 

“Oh!” Valjean collapsed against Javert’s side and howled in laugher at his own mistake.  Javert did not understand why this was so funny.  He wrapped an arm around Valjean’s shoulders and watched as Valjean studied the stars in front of him carefully before finally removing one with his hand. The man radiated much warmth and smelled of saltiness -- seaweed, tears, and sweat.  “This must be the misplaced one,” Valjean said, and put this star where Pollux’s head should have been. 

 

“No, that star was Castor and Pollux’s hands – they are supposed to always be holding hands,” Javert explained. While Valjean moved the star back to its original position Javert rummaged through the overflowing bucket to his side and searched for a star of the correct brightness to use as Pollux’s head. “Here, use this one,” he said as he held out a bright star to Valjean. 

 

Valjean shook his head.  “You place it, then we must keep moving,” he said. Javert knew he was right, for the night was more than half over and they had only covered a small fraction of the sky. He set the star in its place, checked it for accuracy, and then set the constellation in motion on its own arc. He jogged up to Valjean’s side and walked with him northwards, towards increasing latitude and that one point in the sky at the center of the orbits of all the constellations they’ve left behind.

 

“An angel will come for you, Valjean, to keep you from making this much of a mess every night,” Javert said. The man next to him smiled and looked back at him with a gentleness he could not put into words. “Do not worry,” Valjean assured him, “I understand the next constellation very well and there is only one more after that.”

 

“You understand it very well?” asked Javert, his curiosity piqued by Valjean’s claim.  “Which one is it?”

“This one,” Valjean responded after he sprinkled a handful of stars on the ground.  It consisted of a triangle and one bent leg extending from one of its vertices.

 

“Whatever this is, you have it wrong,” Javert said. “There is no such constellation.” In fact, he could scarcely begin to guess what it was meant to be.

 

“But this is Libra, the heavenly scales! You should be very familiar with it.“ Valjean said, surprised by Javert’s reaction.  Javert studied the constellation. Yes, now he could see that it was a fraction of Libra – the triangle was the handle and crossbeam, and the leg was one of its hanging pans.  He was unable to recognize it before because Valjean had deprived it of the second pan in its entirety.  To call this item a scale would be a travesty previously unknown to man, for nothing exists in earth, heaven, or hell that could be placed on it to tilt the balance towards the missing pan.

 

Valjean saw the disbelief on Javert’s face and elaborated on his explanation with dignified calm.  ”This set of scales is used to weigh all the bad things a man had done in life against all the good things,” he said, his breath hitching as he pointed at the pan, “In my case, stealing bread and breaking parole went on this side, and,” he moved his finger to point at the side which everything was doomed to fall right through, “raising Cosette, rescuing others in need, being a good man, those went on this side.”  He went quiet and could not go on to tell which side weighed more, but he did not need to.

 

Javert looked away as he wiped tears from the corners of his eyes with his fingers.  “This is not how scales should be,” he said through his tears, “and I tried to kill myself to free you from this injustice.”  Valjean put his arms around Javert and pulled Javert into a comforting embrace. “That is not the way to fix this. Give me your hands, Javert,” Valjean said, and lifted the bucket to pour some stars into Javert’s cupped hands.  “Go right the scales then guard it, and make sure it will not be wrong again.”

 

Javert sifted through the stars in his hands until he found three with the correct brightness, then squatted down to add them to the constellation.  He extended both arms into the mist, one as support and the other to place the stars, but then froze.  He could not take his eyes from the royal blue colored uniform sleeves.  “How can I continue to be grateful for the privilege to serve in uniform if I have been doing everything wrong for so many years?” he did not mean to ask this question out loud but Valjean answered, ”You judge your time in uniform with the same pair of scales.  You count the failures but are completely blind to the many times your actions prevented crimes and therefore made nothing happen.” He guided Javert’s hand towards the locations of the missing stars.  “Do not try to kill yourself again, because I love you,” he said.

 

Javert set the stars into their places and leaned into Valjean’s embrace.  He moved his hands awkwardly up Valjean’s back and pressed the man against his chest with so much strength that it made breathing difficult.  “Now the scales are balanced you will be judged as the good man you broke parole to become,” he told Valjean with absolute conviction. “God will reverse His sentence that you must spend the rest of your life alone and send you the angel you have been waiting for.  He may already be waiting for you at the furnace now – you will see him when you get back, because that is how things should be.”

 

“Come with me, we only have Ursa Minor left,” Valjean said as he also wiped tears from his face.  He urged Javert forward while he turned back to pick up the bucket that had been forgotten by both. 

 

Valjean led him to within twenty or so strides of the center of the sky, that one stationary point around which all other stars revolved, and began dropping stars one at a time as they walked along the outline of the constellation colloquially known as the Little Dipper. He made a rectangle with four stars, forming the pot, then made its long, curved handle.  In his younger days when he had time to spare, Javert often pondered how terrible it must be to hold a pot of hot water with a handle that shape. Now he walked with Valjean down this handle; the first two placed stars led up to the third, and final, one -- Polaris, the North Star.  It was said that the North Star would point north forever and always, no matter where you were standing.  Find it in the sky and it will guide you home. 

 

Valjean seemed to be well aware that this star must be the brightest one, because he emptied the contents of the bucket off to one side.  There were many bright stars, but without any doubt the one that stood out was Javert’s medal, though Javert had no memory of it being put in the bucket earlier. Valjean picked up the medal and stabbed one of its points into the ground, right in the center of the sky. As if to confirm that they were finished, the pile of stars emptied from the bucket vanished from the ground then reappeared in the bucket.

 

“I will walk with you back to the furnace before I leave,” Javert said.  Valjean turned to face him, all that hair appearing even more white than usual in the gentle white glow of the bucket he held.  “I must wait here through the night and then bring the stars back,” Valjean responded. “Where do you need to go?”

 

“I do not belong here and must return to earth.  Do not worry for me, because I will not try to kill myself anymore. I will wear this uniform and think of you, think of the miracle that a convict can change into one of the best men I have ever known.”  Javert did not know what else to say, so he turned and began to walk back the way they came. He remembered the order in which they’ve placed the constellations and should have no trouble finding his way back to the furnace.  That way he will be able to meet the angel waiting there and direct the angel to Valjean.

 

He did not make it too far before Valjean grabbed him by the shoulders and stopped him. “If you are not the angel God sent to me, why would you carry a star in your pocket?” Valjean asked through quiet sobs. He embraced Javert from behind, and Javert felt hot tears bleed through his uniform and wet his back. If Valjean believed so fervently that he was the angel then he will try to be one.  He did not want Valjean to have to endure any more disappointments.

 

“That star is actually a medal,” Javert answered.  He was going to explain its origins but somehow Valjean already understood. Valjean uprooted the medal and pinned it to the ribbon on Javert’s chest, then, with his hands on Javert’s waist, moved Javert to the location of the North Star.  “Yes,” Javert promised, “I will stand here, reliable like the North Star, and guard you through the night.” 

 

Valjean stepped behind Javert and embraced him anew.  Javert leaned into the embrace and looked down to the pair of arms across his chest.  They were covered with brown hair and were scarred across the wrists.  “What happened to your sleeves?” he tried to ask, but Valjean shook him mightily and he heard calls of his name as all the stars in front of him faded into the mist.  He laid his hands on Valjean’s arms as he fell from heaven – perhaps the angel at the gate saw that he was not going to leave on his own and decided to banish him. Fire roared and danced in front of his eyes, extremely close to his face.  He tried to back away, but something was behind him and the arms around his midsection tightened.

 

“Javert! Are you awake?”

 

He woke to Valjean’s voice.

 

He was lying on his side facing the fireplace in their bedroom.  Two faceted beads lay on the ground just in front of the fireplace, and the embrace he felt was real.  The North Star guided him home.  He looked down.  He was naked, and judging from Valjean’s bare arms, Valjean likely was also.

 

“Yes,” he barely managed to respond, not quite remembering how to control his mouth.

 

“I came home from the factory and found you unconscious under the dining table, still in your damp clothes,” Valjean said into his right ear.  He felt cold moisture on Valjean’s face, and he wondered, sleepily, how much of his dream was real.   “Why were you at the factory in the middle of the night?” he asked.

 

“To make a new rosary, so I could pray for your safety,” Valjean said softly.  “These beads contain the sand you carried home.”

 

Javert yawned.  He was too warm, comfortable, and tired, a lethal combination, to stay awake for long.  “The smugglers came,” he said.  “Five of them and twelve crates of opium are in your old warehouse.” 

 

“When are you planning to make the arrests?” Valjean asked in response while he gently rubbed Javert’s chest, which was not at all helping Javert to stay awake.  Javert felt his head sag towards the ground, and could not hear his own response clearly. “Tomorrow at six in evening, after the handcuff competition,” he said.  He fell into a deep and restful slumber with the sound of Valjean’s chuckle in his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very much unfinished artwork for this chapter, done several versions of chapter ago so ignore the fact that Javert has his coat on:  
> https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B2-oiRFgQM6IQmd4YXVMaWdQMG8/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> Figures of the constellations mentioned:  
> Orion: https://www.astro.virginia.edu/class/whittle/astr1230/im/orionb.boundaries.jpg  
> Gemini: http://www.faaq.org/bibliotheque/constellations/pagdf121.gif  
> Libra: http://www.zodiacetc.com/Images/libra.jpg


	36. Epilogue

Victor pressed his lips together in as he pouted dramatically.  “May I go with papa, Monsieur Leblanc?”  He pinched the bottom of the mayor’s olive-green jacket between his fingers and gave it a tug. Asking for permission had been ineffective, but begging was not beneath him.  “Please, Monsieur Leblanc, please please?”

 

Valjean sighed, but the soft smile he directed at the boy made it clear that his frustration was mostly pretense. He stopped by the factory only to ask Madame Allard whether she felt comfortable for her husband, recovering opium addict and member of the newly formed fire brigade, to join his colleagues at the warehouse and potentially help confiscate massive quantities of opium.  Little did he know that the member of the Allard household he would spend the most time speaking to was not Madame Allard; though visibly ill at ease with his proposal, she relented because she was eager for her husband to move on from his addiction.  In the end it was young Victor Allard who was unhappy with the arrangement. How did Victor even manage to “unintentionally overhear” the private conversation if he were not spying on his own mother? 

 

“You may go so you can see the policemen do their work, but only if your mama will agree to go with you.”  Victor nodded solemnly, the pout still on his face.  “The criminals are dangerous and if you distract the police they may get hurt,” Valjean explained.  “Will you promise to stay quiet?"

 

“Yes, Monsieur Leblanc,” Victor responded. “I promise.”  Valjean extended his right hand to Victor, who closed his hand around the index and middle fingers and shook it up and down to complete their agreement.

 

-

 

Valjean continued down the docks alone after dispatching the lone National Guard at the entrance through the ramparts.  The sun had set only half an hour ago, and wisps of the white fog could be seen drifting about, not yet as dense as it would be deep in the night.  The lanterns glowed magnificently along both banks of the meandering river, and Valjean traced the line of fire with his eyes all the way to the sparkling horizontal line where the river met the sky. 

 

He had come up with the idea to set up lanterns all the way to the Channel after he learned of the dangers the fishermen must confront each day and night in their daily commute to the prime fishing locations at the mouth of the Canche.  The last few lanterns were installed just this morning in the culmination of a full month’s effort.  His heart full of gratitude and pride for the workers, he joined the crowd already gathered along the docks. 

Madame Allard stood at the edge of the crowd with a scarf wrapped around her head to combat the cold.  Next to her, Victor greeted him with a wave and a huge grin.  No one greeted him by name – he asked them not to reveal that he was the mayor – but nonetheless many names were exchanged quietly as men introduced themselves to those whom they only previously recognized by face.

 

“The name is Emilien, Monsieur –“

“I am Michel Bachelot, one of the new teachers.  And your family name, Monsieur?”

“Coupet.  I work in the fire brigade.”    

 

The lone smuggler tasked to stand watch rested his back against the wall next to the warehouse door as he eyed the crowd with curiosity.  Perhaps he was counting up his customers?  Valjean checked his pocket watch.  Two minutes past six.  Javert was due to arrive any moment.

 

None of the people he asked to come could do their duties until the police finished theirs.  He kept his eyes on the path he walked down minutes ago -- the only passage through this side of the ramparts -- watching diligently for the familiar triple-caped greatcoat.  The group of men who emerged a few minutes later were not what he expected.

 

Who they were was not the question.  They could not be anyone but Javert and the police, and in fact Javert was wearing the usual caped greatcoat.  However, the man had on his head a white chef’s hat.   

 

Javert scrutinized each member of the crowd, his weary gaze traveling from face to face until he found Valjean.  The situation offered much for him to be surprised by.  This morning when Valjean woke to sounds of loaded handcarts pushed along the cobblestone road outside their bedroom window, he opened his eyes in shock at the warm body still sound asleep in his arms.  Creeping pain from his numb arm and aching side kept him from closing his eyes again to fully savor the blessed sensation of security and peace.  His mind was too cluttered with gratitude to God, for finally answering his prayers, that thoughts of his then still nascent plan would not coalesce.  So when Javert woke long after Valjean had left, this was all he read in the note he found under one of the candlesticks – the warehouse was the site of a new school and you are free to force entry -- and a short second line which flowed from Valjean’s pen so readily that it was almost an afterthought. 

 

I will be there for you.

 

The sentiment was exact, but now Valjean worried that it was too vague as Javert turned his back to give lengthy orders to his team of men all wearing bleach white caps, as if the full staff of a kitchen got hopelessly lost while searching for missing truffles.  Valjean chuckled to himself as he recalled the young man at the station only said they would ask Javert to wear the hat, not that everyone else would be dressed up, nor that Javert would trade his cudgel for an oversized rolling pin to complete the look.  Perhaps they did this to show solidarity.  

 

Roughly half of the men disappeared behind the line of warehouses, presumably to execute Javert’s orders.  Then, Javert led the remaining men in a straight march towards the smuggler at the warehouse door.  The smuggler put a whistle in his mouth and a hand in his pocket.

 

Valjean held his breath and averted his eyes.  Not far away, Victor stared gapped mouthed from between his father’s legs, completely bewildered. 

 

The smuggler beat the approaching police to the first question.

 

“Who are you?” he asked in heavily accented French.

 

“Javert, fake pastry chef.”

 

“As in… chef who makes fake pastries?  And why are you here?” the smuggler looked to the handful of men behind Javert with distrust clearly written on his face.  “Why you travel with so many?” 

 

“We are looking for opium to put into our pastries.  You have some to sell?”

 

A split second of tense silence followed, during which the entire crowd watched the unfolding scene with anticipation.  The smuggler made to withdraw his hand from his pocket but Javert was faster – he tossed a handful of white powder into the smuggler’s face, and swung the rolling pin through the resulting white plume in a wide arc, into the man’s head.  He fell with a scream.  Victor leapt up and down with delight, little hands pressed to his mouth to clamp it shut. 

 

Without skipping a beat, Javert picked up the pistol which had fallen from the man’s pocket and aimed at the door as one of his men kicked it open.  “By order of the mayor, you are under arrest for possession of illegally obtained merchandise and break-in to government property –“ Javert had long disappeared through the fallen door before the sentence was finished, by the time Valjean exhaled his long-held breath only the policeman who was securing handcuffs on the subdued smuggler remained outside.

 

Valjean balled his hands into fists as he prayed that he would not hear gunshots.  This was the duty Javert was born to do, and Valjean knew that this anxiety and worry would be a burden he must bear each and every day, for it was the price he must pay for the privilege to hold Javert in his arms at night.  This was the only way to love such a man.

 

The crowd bristled as sounds of crashes and pained screams emanated through the doorway, along with the continuous trail of barely visible steam carrying the sweet scent of boiling opium.  As abruptly as when the sounds began, they stopped.  Then, Javert’s stern command, “Lead them out.”

 

Smugglers were led out in handcuffs one by one, four of them, and arranged in a line with the lone man outside to make five.  “Warehouse is clear,” Javert announced as he reappeared through the door, the last man to exit.

 

A burst of pride launched Valjean into motion. “Fire brigade. Go in and put out all flames, then signal for the doctors to move in.”

 

The team of men had already pushed their handcarts laden with full buckets of river water to the front of the crowd. The fire chief acknowledged the command with a simple “Yes, Monsieur le maire,” and waved his newly formed brigade forward. Victor was so young when his father fell into addiction that he only had vague memories of his father at work. "Papa, papa, it is your turn,” he said as he nudged his father forward.  Monsieur Allard put a hand on his son’s head and gestured for him to wait with his mother. “I love you, my son," he responded in a choked whisper.  

 

The remainder of the crowd sorted themselves into the separate groups they belonged in – doctors, teachers, and construction workers – in preparation for their turns.  They sensed that the danger has passed and it was no longer critical to remain silent, so once again they continued their mutual introductions right where they left off.  

 

The smugglers yelled angry and panicked phrases in English at the policemen who were searching their pockets, but the policemen ignored them. They traded glances of absolute incomprehension as the fire brigade marched past them and into the warehouse. The smuggler who was on watch outside the warehouse, apparently the only one of the lot with a passing fluency of French, asked, "What is happening?"

 

Victor ran to the front of the crowd and put his hands on his hips. "Here in Montreuil men who do bad things get arrested, and that is what happened!” he declared, stomping his foot on the ground for emphasis.  The crowd erupted in whoops and cheers.

 

“Yes, the boy is right!” yelled a man from the crowd, and even some members of the fire brigade could be heard voicing their agreement from inside the warehouse. Extremely pleased with himself, Victor turned back to his mother and gave her a radiant smile. Madame Allard shook her head with a wistful smile on her lips.  This boy was already such a handful at merely eight years old.  What will he grow into in another ten years?

 

When the fire chief signaled that the warehouse was cleared of all fire hazards, Valjean waved in the doctors.  “Doctors, go now. Remember that you should salvage everything of medicinal value, even if you need to make multiple trips.”

 

Javert doffed his hat and nodded politely at the words of appreciation offered by the men who passed by his side as part of the orderly procession. "Wonderful disguise, Monsieur l'Inspecteur," one man said cordially, and his colleagues murmured in agreement.

 

When Javert first saw the crowd in front of the warehouse, decades of experience informed him that he should expect the crowd to turn violent and be have spare men ready to restrain the crowd if necessary.  He watched the faces of many men whom he had personally arrested within the past month as they executed their duties with the discipline worthy of an army, under the orchestration of their mayor -- yet another man whom he had arrested before. His world had changed into something completely unrecognizable.  But it had changed for the better.

 

Valjean walked up to the warehouse entrance with the last doctor and stopped where Javert stood.  He turned his head to follow Javert’s gaze to the crowd, and was able to guess the other man’s thoughts.  “Many of us have not been the best of men before, Javert, but now we all have a chance to be,” he said.

 

“Yes, Monsieur le maire.”

 

"Monsieur l’Inspecteur, thank you.  Go let your men rest – I just need to stay for the first impressions of the teachers and construction workers on the building.  Once we decide how many rooms to split the building into and what the construction costs would be," Valjean laughed softly as he shrugged his shoulders, “I must work hard to find the money from somewhere.”

 

Moved by still vivid memories of his dream the night before, Javert responded with uncharacteristic openness, “If I had the means, Monsieur le maire, I would buy a crate of rosary beads from you.” 

 

Valjean studied the complex expression on Javert’s face, and, after careful consideration of what could be said given the current lack of privacy, he settled for a simple “You don’t have to.”  He unbuttoned the top button of his coat and retrieved the rosary of facetted beads he strung together just hours earlier and held it out to Javert. “This was made for you.”

 

Javert tucked the string of stars into his pocket, where it will stay next to his police badge and the Legion d’Honneur medal he began to carry as a reminder of his other duty.  Then he took a bow and led his men and his arrests back to the station.

 

-

 

It was later than Valjean hoped by the time he unlocked the front door to his home.  The house was unexpectedly dim, lit only by candlelight.  Did Javert stay at the station instead of coming home? Disappointment seized him and left a void in his chest – until the waiting man spoke up.

 

“Prepare yourself to be serviced twice.”

 

Valjean hurried through the door and shut it behind him.  Just this short sentence alone could trigger a scandal should it enter the wrong ears! He approached the man seated at the dining table, in the middle of the kitchen area.  At least Javert had the discretion to close all the windows and blinds.  “Are you seri—oh!” question transformed into an exclamation of surprise as Javert rose from his seat and began to unbutton Valjean’s coat with a boldness Valjean had resigned to only ever see demonstrated while Javert was policing. He was at the same time flattered and alarmed, and these conflicting emotions produced the odd reaction of nervous laughter. His hands remained frozen by indecision at his side, until he felt Javert’s fingers tug at the button on the front of his trousers and the first tingling sensations of his arousal liberated him from his paralysis.  He worked to shrug off the jacket which Javert unbuttoned to access his trousers.

 

“After you do this, Javert, can we finally be free of your debt?”

 

The hands which slid the unbuttoned trousers down his legs were frantic and awkward, polar opposites to the confidence with which he announced his intention only seconds ago.  But what Javert lacked in practice and experience he made up for with determination.  A rough hand, hot and sweaty, gripped Valjean’s partially erect penis and pumped it with long strokes down its entire length.  With his other hand, Javert pulled Valjean into his chest in a possessive embrace and began to wander down the loosened collar – until the broken scarred flesh on Valjean’s back gave him pause.

 

“Are your scars painful to the touch, like some of mine?” The voice was deep and hoarse, raw with need.

 

“Yes, but don’t –“ Valjean rested his weight increasingly against Javert as his legs grew weak, and he struggled to speak a complete sentence for lack of breath, “don’t stop because of it. I’ve already lost too much to Toulon.” He stifled a moan against Javert’s linen undershirt – “I don’t want to lose this too.”

 

Javert pressed his palm square in the center of Valjean’s back and felt the muscles tense under his hand.  The long jagged lines of skin that will never fully heal radiated an unnatural heat.  He turned his face slightly towards the head of white hair resting on his shoulder and answered with a promise.  “As long as I live -- you will not.” 

 

At the end of his next stroke he let the throbbing flesh slip entirely out of his grip, and, after lubricating his palm with the fluid seeping out of the tip, returned with firmer, faster strokes. His undershirt was taut across his chest as the trembling Valjean crumpled handfuls of the back of the shirt into his fists to keep himself upright.  It was not much longer until Valjean thrust his hips into a stroke and climaxed with a shuddering, breathless sigh.  The pulses of ejaculate spattered on their shirts and dripped down Javert’s hand.

 

Javert frowned at the mess.  There was nothing to wipe his hand except for the clothing they wore, and Valjean was close to completely limp against his body. He would need to use both hands to help Valjean to the bedroom – after wiping his hand on his already stained undershirt he supported the older man under the arms and slowly navigated them both out of the dining area on his aching legs. 

 

“Will it be better the second time if I insert a finger?” he asked during this brief respite, and was met with a soft laugh and a shake of the head.  “I can’t do this a second time – I am exhausted from sleep deprivation and you must also not have gotten much sleep over the past week.”

 

Javert lowered Valjean to their bed and watched as he pulled his equally stained shirt over his head – revealing the numbers branded on his chest in the process – and discarded it onto the floor. “It is fine for you to fall asleep, but I must try anyway.  It is a matter of principle.” 

 

Valjean gave Javert a smile.  “Then, if it is agreeable with you,” he said, “I want you to use your penis so you could also pleasure yourself.”

“I am inexperienced and it will hurt you.”

“Start with fingers until your penis could enter without being forced.” -- Valjean gestured at a lit tallow candle on the bureau -- “You can even use the tallow, it is a better lubricant than spit.” He tried to look up at the silent man but his eyelids were drifting shut of their own accord.  “Even if you cause a little discomfort, I probably will not feel it, Javert.” 

He must have said enough to alleviate Javert’s concerns because firm hands caught him on his hips and flipped him face down on the mattress.  He closed his eyes and fell into a semi-conscious haze as hands spread his cheeks and smeared warm, slick oil over his entrance.  He took deep breaths to keep himself as relaxed as possible when a finger poke and prodded randomly inside him, then he dozed off to Javert’s muttered rhetorical comment, “Thankfully you are not as hairy as I imagined…”

Some indeterminate amount of time later, he woke to a pressure in his rear.  The slight discomfort was short-lived, because as soon as the initial bulge of the tip penetrated past his sphincter, Javert’s overzealous use of lubricant allowed him to glide in the rest of the way with a swiftness that startled them both. The pleasurable stimulus on his prostate caused Valjean’s muscles to contract and clamp down powerfully. Javert uttered a gasp of surprise as the overwhelming sensation took out his legs and he collapsed partially onto the body under him.

Happiness welling up within the core of Valjean’s being manifested itself in a quiet laughter that shook his entire body, and he straightened one of his arms against his side to rub at the top of Javert’s trembling thigh.  He made a few shallow thrusts with his hips, constrained to a tiny range of motion, but that was more than enough to keep Javert from regaining his footing and the upper hand. “You said – you were tired – !“ Javert protested with uneven breaths and his forehead resting on the nape of Valjean’s neck.

“I am.  I am barely awake.”  Valjean turned his face to one side to direct his whispered words away from the mattress, “Now follow your instincts and do what you must.  Duty may call on you again tomorrow, but tonight… please stay here with me.”

 

After a long silence Javert rolled him to his side without withdrawing, then held him from behind.  Valjean’s back ached from the contact with Javert’s chest, but he leaned backwards to deepen the contact.  “You should finish,” Valjean muttered, his words too slurred to be understood.He watched with barely-open eyes as Javert's hand hovered for a long moment over the brand of numbers across his chest before gently descending upon it, covering it, and pulling him into a possessive embrace.

 

“I dreamt of you last night,” Javert whispered, unsure whether the other man was already asleep. He waited for a response and received none. He must inform Valjean of the promise he made in the dream eventually, but not now.  If he were lucky, he will have a chance to tomorrow.  Today they will both catch up on sleep.

 

With the raw warmth of another body a lingering presence in his awareness Javert closed his eyes to report to duty. He found himself transported back to that same furnace in his dream where he found Valjean the night before, but this time with no need of a desperate search and no fear of expulsion. He took a seat and watched as Valjean worked to craft the final batch of stars with a contented smile. Gone was the profound sadness on his face the night before, without a trace, as if it was simply a coat he wore and which he had cast off for another.  The sun was setting, and tonight the stars will rise into the night sky.  

 

"You came."

 

"Yes."

 

\- fin-

http://archiveofourown.org/works/1533584

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long to post the last chapter -- I hope that it ties up most loose ends. The delay is because I have started to work on an extremely ambitious collaborative effort with my excellent beta Groucha. It is a Javert&Valjean story starting with the chain gang and ending with a post-Seine AU.
> 
> We are proud of the prologue, which had just been posted minutes ago. Please give the prologue a chance. Thank you.
> 
> Prologue: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1533584


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